a I E) RARY 
 
 OF THE 
 UN IVLRSITY 
 or ILLINOIS 
 
 V.I
 
 Digitized by tine" Internet Archive 
 
 in 2010 with funding from 
 
 University of Illinois Urbana-Champaign 
 
 http://www.archive.org/details/guywatermannovel01saun
 
 GUY WATERMAN. 
 
 BT 
 
 JOHN SAUNDERS, 
 
 AUTHOR OF * ABEL DRAKE'S WIFE,' ETC. 
 
 IN THREE VOLUMES. 
 Vol. I. 
 
 LONDON: 
 
 TINSLEY BROTHEES, 18, CATHERINE STREET, 
 
 STRAND. 
 
 1864.
 
 LONDON : TiilSTEU BT W. CLOWES AND SONS, STAMFORD STBEET, 
 AND CilAKING CEOSS.
 
 ■■J 
 
 I'. I 
 
 >- 
 
 g PREFACE. 
 
 CO 
 
 CO 
 
 in 
 
 CD 
 
 There are only two ways in which an artist, 
 who, receiving nothing from Fortune, gives 
 many hostages to it, can hope to obtain his 
 legitimate ends : the one is, to devote himself 
 to labours apart from his true calling, and 
 wait and hope for the leisure and peace 
 which may never (thus) come ; the other, to 
 accept that calling as his only one, even if it 
 involves temporary sacrifices of individual 
 taste and feeling in the struggle for popu- 
 larity, which to him and his means — bread. 
 
 The present Avriter tried the first method, 
 and it cost him many years to produce a 
 single work (' Love's Martyrdom'), by whieli 
 he would consent to be judged; and then 
 he learned the mistake he had made, in 
 supposing that, in the higher branches of
 
 IV PREFACE. 
 
 literature, a man need only produce fitting 
 credentials to be able thenceforward to de- 
 vote himself to his own work in his own 
 way. 
 
 He accepted from that time the only alter- 
 native. The first method having failed, he 
 adopted the second : — ' The Shadow in the 
 House,' ' Martin Pole ' (a collection of fugi- 
 tive tales written at different times), and 
 ' Abel Drake's Wife,' are in one direction — 
 and 'Guy Waterman,' in another — the re- 
 sults. The first three books are studies, 
 leading, it is hoped, ultimately to some 
 finished work or works ; the fom^th was pro- 
 duced with no higher literary aim than that 
 of helping to amuse the novel - reading 
 public. 
 
 ' Guy Waterman ' (founded on a sketch 
 which will be remembered by the readers 
 of ' Martin Pole ') was written for the ' Penny 
 Illustrated Paper.' The author had to accept 
 the known facts of the public taste, and make
 
 PREFACE. V 
 
 the best of them. If he had not thought he 
 could do this mnocently, he has a right to 
 say he would not have done it at all. But 
 the tale was written — was successful (so the 
 writer is assured by those who have the 
 strongest motives for estimating accurately 
 its reception) — is to be republished in an- 
 other periodical — and is now proposed (for 
 the second or third time) to be issued in 
 the ordinary library form. As the latest 
 proposition comes from the author's pub- 
 lishers, he cannot but consent, were it only 
 on the ground of their considerate patience 
 towards him (and upon which he is still 
 obhged to trespass), as regards a long-pro- 
 mised successor to ' Abel Drake's Wife.' 
 
 He has only to add that the story has 
 been revised throughout for the present issue, 
 and that large portions of it have been re- 
 written. 
 
 London, Apil, 1864.
 
 ( ^i^ ^ 
 
 CONTENTS OF VOL. I. 
 
 CnkV. PACK 
 
 T.— A Mother s Letter 1 
 
 TI.— On the Deck of the ' Black Gull ' 11 
 
 III. — A Parley and Surrender 25 
 
 IV.— In the Cabin at Night 33 
 
 Y.— The Boat of the 'Marco Polo' 42 
 
 VI.— Washed Ashore 48 
 
 VII.— The last of the ' Black Gull ' 5.5 
 
 Vlll.-Phoibe f^3 
 
 IX.— Of the Two Roads— which ? 79 
 
 X. — Susan Beck and her little Daugliter .... 5)7 
 
 XI. — Phoebe Waterman's Home 112 
 
 XII. — How Guy obtained his Name 1^5 
 
 XIII. — An innocent Impostor lying in State .... 137 
 
 XIV.— The Workshop at Tanfield 156 
 
 XV. — Phoebe and Susan come to an Armistice . . . 168 
 
 XVI. — After her Day's Work Phoebe enjoys her Supper 177 
 
 XVII. — Susanna's Legacy 192 
 
 XVIIL— Phoebe's Perplexities 209 
 
 XIX.— A Light in the Workshop 223 
 
 XX.— A young Warrior from his first Battlefield . . 231 
 
 XXL— Mr. Pample's Cousin 241 
 
 XXII. — In which the Squire upsets Everybody's Plans . 257 
 
 XXIIL— Lucy 266 
 
 XXn^— Natural but unwelcome Advice 280 
 
 XXV.— The Fishpond . . . 286 
 
 XXVL-Phcebe has bad Dreams 299 
 
 XXVII.— The future Lady of Branhape 326
 
 GUY WATERMAN 
 
 CHAPTEE I. 
 
 A MOTHER S LETTER. 
 
 ' To Phoebe Waterman. 
 
 * Branhape Hall, Sunday Evening. 
 
 ' Dear Nurse, — Don't be alarmed when I tell you 
 to read this secretly, and to burn it the moment you 
 have read ; unless, indeed, you refuse my prayer, 
 which I do not, cannot, believe. 1 must not see 
 you, not just now_, for reasons you will understand. 
 Read this letter, then, I entreat you, very carefully ; 
 so that the directions in it may not be mistaken. 
 Oh, take care of that ! so much will depend upon 
 it. But when you have done so, and consented, as 
 I am sure you will consent, then commit this to the 
 flames ; for lam about to tell you in it things that 
 
 VOL I. B
 
 A GUY WATERMAN. 
 
 you alone must ever know, and of which I should 
 shudder to think any record existed except that 
 which may live in your heart. You have always 
 professed affection for me ; you have appeared de- 
 voted to me ; and I, in return, have treated you 
 more as a friend than as one conscious of, or 
 caring for, our different worldly positions. Well, 
 1 am now about to try all your devotedness. 
 I have determined to leave this place to-morrow, 
 perhaps for ever, and I will not go without my 
 child. But I do not ask you simply to give him 
 up to me. No ; I want you to go with him, and 
 with me. Do not be afraid. You shall return in 
 a very few months ; and your husband shall find 
 you come back enriched beyond his utmost desires. 
 I cannot nurse my boy ; that you know. I have 
 again solemnly promised my husband, at the doctor's 
 urgent request, that I will not do so. But I must 
 go ; I must take him with me ; and now, Phoebe, 
 will you not come with us both, and remove from 
 me my last danger and difficulty ? I do not ask 
 you to leave your own babe behind, unless you 
 have some friend or relative in whom you can
 
 A mother's letter. 3 
 
 entirely trust. If you wish to bring him with you, 
 do so ; and as you have been a mother to my child 
 from the very hour of its birth, when you were so 
 unexpectedly called to my aid, so will I be a true 
 mother to yours. Born within a fortnight of each 
 other, nourished by the same milk, who can tell but 
 that their fates are intentionally knit together by a 
 Providential hand ? But if you take him you must 
 find a companion to nurse one of the children. 
 The girl you now employ would be too }Oung to 
 travel. Choose a discreet person. I will pay her 
 well. There are several young women in the vil- 
 lage who will be glad to be so engaged. Be silent 
 at first about the voyage across the se:is. Only 
 take care to find a person that can go on with us, 
 when you finally explain to her what is wanted. If 
 she then refuses — say at the seaport where we shall 
 meet — we will seek other aid ; and slie will have 
 been useful in the meantime in helping us to get 
 away from here. 
 
 ' For, O dear Phuebe, I do want to get away ! 
 And I am strong enough now. I walked for an 
 
 hour this morning in the park in order to try what 
 
 B 2
 
 4 GUY WATEEMAN. 
 
 I could do. There is that in my spirit which will 
 make up for all the deficiencies of the frame. I 
 ca7i go now, and I must. It is not only this mes- 
 sage from my dying sister that moves me ; it is not 
 even the spiritual danger to my boy's soul, who will 
 be educated as a heretic if I stay ; but, O Phoebe, 
 it is this — either my husband no-'longer loves me, 
 or I have ceased to love him. Which it is I know 
 not. You have seen much, and I know you have 
 guessed more. But even you cannot tell what an 
 aching heart I have had since these conversations 
 with him about our child's future. When I mar- 
 ried him (and never shall I cease to be grateful for 
 the motives that prompted him to come to me in my 
 loneliness, in my bitter distress and misery) I did 
 not so much weigh his generosity, or the station or 
 shelter he offered me, or even his delicate sympathy 
 with my love for the dead — all these influenced me, 
 of course ; but above and beyond them all was the 
 paramount thought that I should be an instrument 
 in God's, hand to bring him to the true Church; 
 that I should be able to advance the interests of 
 our faith by the spectacle of so noble and influential
 
 A MOTHERS LETTER. 
 
 a convert. And, looking in that direction exclu- 
 sively, I saw beyond this success a vision of domestic 
 peace and aflPection and unity that fascinated me, 
 and made me forget for a time my sorrow and my 
 depression. 
 
 ' Dear Phoebe, you who shared secretly my hopes 
 must, I know, have participated keenly in all my 
 disappointments. I cannot bear to dwell on them. 
 Enough, I know now he is unchangeable. He is 
 willing enough to respect my faith, but he forbids 
 interference with his. And on one occasion he 
 spoke with such sternness that my very blood 
 froze as I listened for the first time to other than 
 kindly tones from his lips. Well, I know now 
 the worst. The doing away with this delusion of 
 my influence over his spiritual welfare has, I fear, 
 destroyed at the same time another delusion, that 
 we loved each other as man and wife should love. 
 Perhaps I may err in this. Perhaps I am just now 
 estimating things at false values. But what am I to 
 do? My sister cries to me with her dying breath to 
 visit her; my husband refuses practically, though 
 not in words, his consent to my taking the child
 
 6 GUY WATERMAN. 
 
 with me if I do undertake so distant a voyage ; and 
 the whole future of my dear, dear babe hangs on 
 this my present decision. Can I leave him to be 
 reared as a Protestant ? Impossible ! I must then 
 either violate my duty to my husband or my duty 
 to my child. Which shall it be ? Oh, Phoebe, 1 
 have asked myself this question endlessly for days 
 and nights past; I have knelt to ask it, have 
 prayed while asking it, have felt at times my whole 
 being dissolved in tears as I asked it, and looked 
 around, up, everywhere, in vain, for a clear sufficing 
 answer. 
 
 * Perhaps even now I could not go, but that I see 
 he is willing to allow me to depart, provided I go 
 alone. Still I do not blame him. He is perhaps 
 as bitterly disappointed as I am at the state of our 
 present relations ; and he is proud and little in- 
 clined to speak when wounded. No, I cannot 
 blame him; I blame only myself; I ought not to 
 have married. My heart, for all useful purposes, 
 was in the grave. Religion gave it a new life, but 
 he did not respond, as I hoped, to its quickening in- 
 fluence ; and now — Heaven help me ! — there is our
 
 A MOTHERS LETTEE. V 
 
 cliild, dear to us both, but making a gulf between 
 us both while we are together. Am I not right, 
 then, to decide to leave him ? — I do not say inten- 
 tionally for ever. I will not undertake to deal 
 with issues that are not in my hand ; but let us 
 secure the present. I can go, happily, without 
 exciting any noticeable or injurious comment. The 
 servants have been aware for days that the question 
 of my voyage is in agitation ; and, if he be hurt or 
 angry that the child is removed without his consent, 
 he will not, I am certain, make any useless or un- 
 necessary exposure. I shall take care that, by the 
 time he learns you have gone away with the boy, he 
 shall know by letter it is to meet me ; and that I 
 pray alike to him and to Heaven for forgiveness if 
 I err. 
 
 ' T have told you, Phcebe, all this because I know 
 that you already suspect the greater part of the 
 truth ; and because I have no right to ask so much 
 confidence from you without giving something in 
 return. 
 
 * Now, then, to business. I shall leave here to- 
 morrow night for Plymouth, with my husband's
 
 8 GUY WATERMAN. 
 
 consent. He will not, I am quite sure, ask me any- 
 thing about the boy ; knowing how dangerous a sub- 
 ject it is, and believing that he remains behind. Do 
 not you move or make any sign until he has been or 
 sent to you after my departure. He will then want 
 to know that the child is safe ; but when that visit is 
 over, be prompt and decisive in all you do. You 
 must, if possible, so manage matters that you shall 
 not be missed by anybody for a day or so longer ; 
 but do not delay after once letting them see that 
 you and the child are safe in the cottage after I 
 shall have gone away. We must risk something. 
 If only we get the child safely on board the ship, I 
 can depend upon the captain. His vessel is in part 
 my sister's property, and for that reason she wished 
 me to sail with him. 
 
 ' I enclose twenty pounds, five of it in gold and 
 silver, so that you may not by any unusual display 
 of means excite suspicion while making any neces- 
 sary outlay in the village. 
 
 'And now, Phoebe, all my prospects of future 
 peace — if any such there be — and all my hopes of 
 securing my child's spiritual welfare, are in your
 
 A motheb's letter. 9 
 
 hands. You, too, are a Catholic; and you have, if 
 I did not mistake you, shown to me, so far as you 
 could venture, that you were prepared to sacrifice 
 something, not only for me personally, but for the 
 true faith. Now, then, I test you. If you abso- 
 lutely refuse, return me this package entire, just as 
 you receive it, within one hour after you receive it. 
 If you agree, and that means if you have any sin- 
 cere love for me or for my babe that now hangs at 
 your breast, you need take no notice whatever. 
 Only be sure of your messenger if you do send. 
 What would become of me were I to reach Ply- 
 mouth and see neither you nor my babe ? You 
 will not treat me thus ? Think, too, what it would 
 be for you knowingly to let my boy suck poison from 
 you. Yet is it a less matter to allow anyone, even 
 a father, to poison his soul ? Oh, no ! 
 
 ' Ever your friend and mistress, 
 
 * Amy Dalrymple. 
 
 * P.S. — One hour, recollect! See yourself that 
 your messenger does come to the hall, if you send 
 one. But again I say, you will not, cannot do that,
 
 10 GUY WATERMAN. 
 
 my own faithful Phoebe ? No ; you will destroy 
 this letter as soon as you have read it, as I at first 
 requested, and ensure for ever the grateful affection 
 of A. D. 
 
 « 
 
 ' 2nd P.S. — On reading this again, I have remem- 
 bered that, though I cannot from here see your cot- 
 tage, there is a room that commands a view of the 
 shed in the fields where your husband sometimes 
 works. With a glass I can see it perfectly. If, 
 then, you will go there and wave a white handker- 
 chief three times, I shall know all is well. I go now 
 to watch for the signal. 
 
 * I forgot to say the enclosure is the address of the 
 shipping agent at Plymouth. And now, Phoebe, 
 once more I say, I wait your signal.'
 
 CHAPTER 11. 
 
 ON THE DECK OF THE ' BLACK GULL.' 
 
 It was close upon seven by the captain's watch — 
 seven in the evening of the 20th of July, being the 
 sixth day on which the ' Black Gull ' had lain be- 
 calmed just within sight of the Irish shore. 
 
 Six days her sails had been lazily flapping about her 
 masts, vainly wooing the breeze that would not come. 
 Six days her crew had been wondering and specu- 
 lating hour by hour how much longer they would 
 see the faint strip of coast that represented to them 
 all the broad lands and people of Great Britain. 
 Six days her captain had searched incessantly all 
 points of the compass in the hope of discovering 
 tokens of a coming change. Six days the timbers of 
 the ' Black Gull ' had been whitening and gaping in 
 many a seam, under the fierce, blistering, burning 
 sun.
 
 12 GtTY WATERMAN. 
 
 Still she lay as though she were spell-bound ; and 
 the tiny transparent ripples broke against the black 
 sides as calmly as if it were a little island that had 
 never moved since the sea was made, and never 
 would move more till the sea should leave its bed. 
 
 But what ails her crew just now? Is there a 
 dream within the dream that seems to possess the 
 * Black Gull ? ' Every man moves as if he were 
 afraid to break the silence. Here and there are 
 little groups of men that don't seem to talk, and yet 
 look into each other's faces with a mutual under- 
 standing and gloomy sympathy. The captain ap- 
 pears to be especially disturbed. He walks apart, 
 glancing almost furtively, and as if half-ashamed, at 
 a book that one might suppose, did not the idea seem 
 so very absurd, to be a Common Prayer-book. In 
 the centre of the vessel, under a kind of awning hung 
 round and projecting from the mainmast, are two 
 females, one of peculiar beauty and delicacy, wear- 
 ing the garb of a lady of rank ; the other, who is 
 also good-looking, but whose face is clouded and 
 distorted with grief and passion, appears to be her 
 maid, judging from the dress she wears. She has a
 
 ON THE DECK OF THE 'BLACK GULL.' 13 
 
 child on her knee, which she rocks to and fro ; and 
 which occasionally she stoops to kiss and to strain to 
 her hosom under the impulse of some ovelfcnastering 
 trouble. It is evidently not this child who is ill or 
 in danger. He is a fine chubby infant, of that 
 severe kind of beauty which we find in the pictures 
 of Raphael. The lady leans over her with one hand 
 on her shoulder, and occasionally whispers some kind 
 word or soothing phrase, and calls her ' dear Phoebe,' 
 while begging her to restrain the tumults of her 
 grief. 
 
 The signal, then, had been answered ; the lady of 
 Branhape Hall was here with her trusted nurse and 
 confidante, and one child. But what of the other ? 
 There is, back there in the afterpart of the vessel, a 
 woman talking with the wife of the purser or stew- 
 ard, but her arms are empty, and she stands, looks 
 and moves as though her occupation were over. Is 
 one of the children dead ? Has the ill-omened voy- 
 age begun in calamity ? It is not Mrs. Dalrymple 
 who has been stricken. All her anxiety is evidently 
 for her companion, except when now and then she 
 starts forward somewhat apprehensively, lest Phoebe,
 
 14 GUY WATERMAN. 
 
 in her sudden and impulsive gesture, will let fall or 
 crush in her fierce embrace the babe on her knee. 
 
 As the#captain, in his uneasy wanderings with that 
 mysterious book in his hand, passed a couple of men 
 in the forepart of the vessel, he said, 
 
 * 'Tis nearly time.' 
 
 ' Ay, ay, sir ; all ready ! ' was the response, and 
 the two men (who were more impassive than the 
 rest, as though duty admitted of no feeling) began 
 to look over the vessel's side, and gossip in a low, 
 dreamy undertone, while they watched with half- 
 shut eyes the sea-gulls flashing like specks of silver 
 as they hovered between them and the purple line 
 of coast. Lazily, also, they began to watch the 
 fishing-smacks — sailless — putting off in a cluster 
 like a little black band of conspirators on the still 
 waters in the intense quiet of the evening. North, 
 south, and east, spread a cloudless blue sky above 
 a shadowless sea — a sea so placid that its billows 
 appeared but as lines scratched upon its glassy 
 surface at regular intervals. North, south, and 
 east — sky, air, and ocean lay under the spell of the 
 golden calm ; but in the west, prominent and lurid
 
 ON THE DECK OF THE 'BLACK GULL.' 15 
 
 like a red eye starting from its socket, hung the 
 sun, and as its edge dipped into the sea it seemed 
 to set the quiet waters on fire, and to spread a 
 flaming pathway right across them up to the ship's 
 black side. 
 
 One of the two men had turned to gaze with 
 lack-lustre eye on the wondrous spectacle, and he 
 was even yawning in its face ; but his companion, 
 who had apparently found something to attract his 
 attention, presently remarked, 
 
 ' I say. Jack, what's that boat after, such a long 
 way out at sea ? Any of us run away ? It seems 
 coming- arter us.' 
 
 ' I don't know,' replied Jack, after another pro- 
 longed yawn, 'and Tm sure I don't care. A de- 
 tective 'ud be a godsend now. I never was so sick 
 of anything in my life as these here blessed six 
 days aboard o' this here blessed Black Gull.' 
 
 ' I suppose,' continued the first speaker, ' it's 
 only an amoosement party — Lord love 'em I — that 
 wants to pay a visit to the sea, and daren't take not 
 no such liberties except in this uncommon fine 
 weather.'
 
 16 GUY WATERMAN. 
 
 They were interrupted by the captain, who came 
 up to theiD, saying, 
 
 ' Now, boys, this business must be got over some- 
 how, while the light lasts. Fetch up the mate. Tell 
 hira we are quite ready. Tom Tute, you must be 
 the sexton and clerk in one. The Powers above 
 only know how I shall get through the job. The 
 more I try to understand what I am to read, the 
 more I get muddled.' 
 
 Tom Tute, an old man with little sparkUng black 
 eyes, touched the black corkscrew ringlet hanging 
 over one of them, and made for the cabin ; while 
 Jack, going a little towards the centre of the ship, / 
 began to clear away coils of rope and other matters 
 that lay about, so as to make a vacant space, 
 extending from where the females remained under 
 the awning to a particular part of the side of the 
 vessel. Mrs. Dalrymple saw the movement, and 
 redoubled her attentions to her companion. Phcebe 
 saw it too, and began to rock to and fro with in- 
 creased agitation and violence, and with a foot that 
 at times seemed to strike the boards in fierce de- 
 fiance. All the other occupants of the deck also
 
 ON THE DECK OF THE * BLACK GULL.' 17 
 
 saw what Jack was about, and most of them ap- 
 peared to feel a kind of relief that they knew now 
 they were not chosen for so disagreeable a task, and 
 one that with a superstitious class like sailors is 
 naturally avoided if possible. 
 
 There was a moment's pause, and then the car- 
 penter ascended from the steerage, carrying a 
 plank which he turned over and over in his hands 
 as though its smoothness and whiteness redeemed 
 to his notions the object for which it was required. 
 He handed it to Tom Tute, who had followed him 
 from below. The old sailor took it without even 
 looking at it; and, balancing it on his shoulder, 
 strode with a rolling gait towards the ladies' cabin. 
 Many eyes watched the plank, and the head dis- 
 appearing downwards lower and lower, until both 
 were out of sight. And then the same eyes 
 watched still more intently for their reappearance. 
 At last, a dark head rose, but instead of Tom 
 Tute's appeared the stolid, pale, black-whiskered 
 face of the mate ; who turned from time to time, as 
 though giving directions, and restraining from a too 
 hasty appearance those who were following. Then 
 
 VOL. 1.
 
 18 GUY WATERMAN. 
 
 the captain, who knew his time had come, hemmed 
 and hawed two or three times, looked uneasily 
 round, took another glance of the sky, and found 
 some comfort apparently there, for he at once 
 plunged into the duty he had undertaken, which 
 was no other than to read the affecting, beautiful, 
 and solemn burial service of the Church of Eng- 
 land. All the hearers started at the unwonted 
 sound, which, though long expected, came not the 
 less strangely from the unlettered captain's Sten- 
 torian voice. He read with feeling if not with taste. 
 His manner was rude, but it was evident there was 
 a certain manly tenderness of heart below, for now 
 and then there was a pause, and a glance towards 
 the anguished mother, and a softer inflexion of the 
 not naturally soft tones as he resumed. 
 
 Mrs. Dalrymple and Phoebe had simultaneously 
 looked at each other as they heard the captain's 
 first few words, which seemed to disturb thera ; then 
 hastily making the sign of the cross, they began to 
 mutter to themselves. 
 
 And still the eyes of the crew turned towards the 
 cabin. Presently was heard the tread of a heavy,
 
 ON THE DECK OP THE 'BLACK GULL.' 19 
 
 careful foot, and the rope banister began to shake 
 
 as if grasped below by an unsteady hand ; then, 
 
 before anything else, appeared the hand emerging 
 
 above the stairs, clasping the rope, and looking 
 
 rough and horny in the broad sunlight. They 
 
 watched it make two moves upwards along the rope, 
 
 and then rose a bare head, with a face looking 
 
 downwards. A step higher and Tom Tute came 
 
 out with the white plank on his shoulder, and on 
 
 ihe plank all that remained of Poor Phoebe's child. 
 
 He crossed the deck to that part of the vessel's side 
 
 which Jack had cleared, and rested his double 
 
 burden across the bulwark, and then stood still, 
 
 with the same immovable face as ever. A rustling 
 
 of silk was now heard ; and the sailors, who had 
 
 come near to give a look at the white little face — 
 
 white and cold, and dead as marble< — drew back 
 
 respectfully to a distant part of the ship. The 
 
 captain continued to read, though ever and anon he 
 
 could not help glancing about, and always as he 
 
 did so lost his place, and grew confused in the 
 
 finding. Mrs. Dalrymple gave one long, fixed 
 
 look, stooped and kissed the pale clay, then turned 
 
 o2
 
 20 GUY WATERMAN. 
 
 and resumed her place under the awning, and drew 
 her rosary from beneath her cloak. She evidently 
 expected Phoebe would now give her the child, and 
 go to take her last farewell also. But the bereaved 
 mother only gazed towards the dead babe and 
 stooped low, and huddled more and more yearningly 
 to her breast the living child that lay across her 
 knees crowing and laughing in the poor nurse's 
 face. Mrs. Dalrymple was about to remind her 
 how rapidly the time of her babe's presence was 
 fleeting away, when, to the surprise of all on board 
 a loud and vigorous hail was heard near at hand. 
 
 * Ship ahoy ! Black Gull, ahoy ! ' 
 
 * Ay, ay ! what cheer ? What's amiss now ? ' 
 replied the captain, in his natural tone, and for- 
 getting in an instant the solemnity in which he had 
 been engaged. 
 
 ' Hold hard 1 we want to come on board ! ' 
 'Hold hard!' echoed the captain. *I thought 
 we'd had enough o' that these six days past.' Then, 
 raising his voice, he cried out, ' Make haste, for if a 
 wind rises I wouldn't stop for King George himself, 
 and I s'pose you haven't got him with you.'
 
 ON THE DECK OF THE * BLACK GULL.' 21 
 
 But what ails the lady, as she listens and turns 
 to even a deeper paleness than that which usually 
 overspreads her face ? Hurriedly she whispers to 
 Phoebe, 
 
 * We are pursued. It is either my husband who 
 comes or some one sent by him. Oh, what shall I do ? 
 What shall I do ? ' She began to wring her hands. 
 
 The captain suddenly came up to her, and said 
 bluntly, 
 
 * You have nothing to fear. No one shall touch 
 you if you do not wish to go back.' 
 
 * Oh, it is not me, it is the child — the child he 
 wants.' 
 
 ' Then give the word, and the child he shall not 
 have. Here ! ' said he, in his usual tone of com- 
 mand, * Tom Tute, go back all of you out of ear- 
 shot, but where you can see if you are wanted.' All 
 the sailors drew back, but looked uncommonly in- 
 quisitive ; and as though the incident was, as Tom 
 Tute had phrased it, a godsend to men six days 
 becalmed. 
 
 ' Now, madam,' said the captain, ' if you will only 
 be so good as to tell me what you wish to be done
 
 22 GUY WATEEMAN. 
 
 we can proceed safely to action. They will be on 
 deck in another five minutes.' 
 
 But Mrs. Dalrymple seemed lost in the double 
 anguish of being obliged to stand before her hus- 
 band or her husband's messenger in a rebellious, 
 defying mood, or to choose as the only alternative 
 the giving up the babe, perhaps never again to see 
 it except when grown into manhood as a confirmed 
 heretic. She could only feebly murmur, 
 
 ' Oh ! is it possible to get the child away without 
 unseemly contests or violence ? Is it possible ? ' 
 
 The captain stopped, looked down ; then, as if to 
 get clearer insight into the case, tried to see how the 
 weather was going on ; and, in turning his eye for 
 that purpose, it fell on the plank and the dead baby 
 lying on the deck, the burial of which had been so 
 unexpectedly stopped. But he did not like to say 
 what he thought, and so gazed dubiously towards 
 the lady, who seemed to divine he had a thought, 
 and who said, 
 
 'Speak! What is it?' 
 
 The captain pointed to the little mummy-like 
 figure, and then towards the approaching boat, which
 
 ON THE DECK OF THE 'BLACK GULL.' 23 
 
 was very near ; so near that Mrs. Dalrymple saw 
 that her husband was not in it. She understood the 
 gesture in an instant; and looked inquiringly at 
 Phoebe, who had listened with strange interest to the 
 conversation, and who now simply nodded in answer. 
 
 ' I will manage it,' continued the captain. * Say 
 as little as you can, if you please, both of you. But 
 could you not change the dress ? ' 
 
 Scarcely had the words quitted his lips than Phoebe, 
 her eyes blazing with wild light, gave the living babe 
 into its mother's arms, saying, 
 
 ' Strip him, quick, quick ! I will be back in an 
 instant.' She then flew to the cabin, and, before the 
 mother's trembling fingers had succeeded in their 
 task, Phoebe had again got hold of the still smiling 
 babe, and with almost magical celerity had put upon 
 its rosy limbs the humble-looking and well-worn 
 garments that were no longer needed by their true 
 owner. 
 
 The moment this was accomplished, she again 
 gave the living child to the mother to hold while she 
 stripped off the sheet from the dead one, and invested 
 it in all the rich, delicate, and lace-adorned habili-
 
 24 
 
 GUY WATERMAN. 
 
 ments that she had obtained by the exchange. She 
 then once more replaced the sheet, with the heavy 
 roundshot that she found enclosed, and went back to 
 the awning to receive again into her arms the only 
 thing for which she now seemed to care. 
 
 Mrs. Dalrymple tried to smile in Phoebe's face as 
 their eyes met, but the smile was so wan and ghastly 
 that it was, perhaps, as well Phoebe took little heed 
 of it. She had again got the dear burden in her 
 arms, was again rocking it and herself to and fro, 
 again gazing on the plank and that which it bore, 
 and again apparently reckless of whatever might 
 happen, so that she and her grief and it were not 
 interfered with. 
 
 'I'll take care the lads say nothing till we're 
 off, and then it won't matter,' observed the cap- 
 tain. 
 
 ' No, no ! ' said Mrs. Dalrymple ; 'and I will let 
 ray husband know the truth at the earliest possible 
 moment.' 
 
 ' They are here,' said the captain, in a low voice ; 
 and he went forward to meet the men, who now 
 ascended to the deck.
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 A PARLEY AND SURRENDER. 
 
 The new-comers were a gentlemanly-looking short 
 man in black of about thirty ; and a much younger- 
 looking person who had about him all the unmis- 
 takable aroma of the law, and was, indeed, a law- 
 yer's clerk. As soon as the gentleman in black 
 caught sight of Mrs. Dalrymple, he went to her, 
 and, taking off his hat, said, in a silvery voice, and 
 with a smile on his dark face that had nothing in it 
 presuming, but a great deal that was peculiar, 
 
 * I beg your pardon, madam, but I come from Mr. 
 Dalrymple with an earnest and urgent request — 
 request only, my dear madam ' — he carefully empha- 
 sized and modulated the sound of the word — * that 
 you will return.' So saying, Mr. Pample ceased to 
 smile, and waited to see how it had succeeded. We 
 have called his smile peculiar. It was strangely
 
 26 GUY WATERMAN. 
 
 sweet while it lasted, and made you fancy all kinds 
 of spiritual graces behind. But it would come and 
 go with painful suddenness, with no transition be- 
 tween the two states, and with no apparent congruity. 
 Mrs. Dalrymple did not respond to the smile. She 
 said, with almost an effort of haughtiness, 
 
 * For what reasons, Mr. Pample, may I ask, does 
 my husband thus send after me? Has anything 
 occurred since we parted? Pray speak plainly, 
 whatever you may have to say. The captain is my 
 friend, and his presence need be no bar.' 
 
 ' Oh, of course not,' said Mr. Pample, as the cap- 
 tain was turned to, and had the especial benefit of 
 the silvery tones and the gentle, winning smile. * I 
 was simply instructed to desire your immediate 
 return.' 
 
 * And if I refused — that is, if I found it impos- 
 sible to comply, under existing circumstances — what 
 then?' 
 
 ' Why, then, my dear madam, much as I should 
 regret Mr. Dalrymple's disappointment, we must 
 content ourselves with simply taking back the child. 
 Upon that head my orders are imperative. Nay,
 
 A PAELEY AND SUBRENDER. 27 
 
 my dear madam,' Mr. Pample interrupted, with 
 raised hand and humble, deprecating look, * consider, 
 I pray you, the head of so ancient a family — a man 
 advancing in years — his only child — heir to such 
 large and unincumbered estates ! ' 
 
 But it was Mrs. Dalrymple who now inter- 
 rupted. 
 
 ' I think, sir, you might have given Mr. Dai- 
 ry mple's wife credit for having thought of all these 
 things before she would have taken the step she did 
 take, and for which, I presume, you do not expect 
 from me, Mr. Pample, as my husband's steward, 
 either apologies or explanations.' \ 
 
 ' I, my dear madam, I ? ' responded Mr. Pam- 
 ple, with arched eyebrows, and a shade erasing, as 
 before, the constant smile from his face, as if its 
 owner estimated mechanically the exact moment 
 when it was proper for it to depart. ' I beg you to 
 believe that I never in my life before undertook so 
 painful a duty, and that in the doing it I can have 
 but one hope, one alleviation, that you will feel 
 when all is over, that I shall have done it in a spirit 
 of entire devotion to the interests of the family.'
 
 28 GUT WATERMAN. 
 
 He turned, as he said this, feeling his arm plucked : ' 
 it was the captain, who asked, 
 
 * Do you know what I was doing when you hailed 
 us?' 
 
 'No.' 
 
 ' I was reading the Burial Service for the Dead.' 
 
 * The what ? Gracious goodness ! — the dead ! 
 You do not mean — ' 
 
 The captain stepped a little aside from the place 
 he had intentionally occupied, and pointed to the 
 white plank and its white burden then first made 
 visible to the strangers. 
 
 ' Is it possible ? Dear me ! dear me ! ' exclaimed 
 Mr. Pample, going towards the dead babe, but 
 casting as he went a rapid and piercing glance at 
 Phoebe and the child she was nursing. Phoebe had 
 quelled all her strong passion under the sense of 
 her mistress's position and difficulty, and now looked 
 (as she answered Mr. Pample's curious glance) 
 just what the nurse of the dead infant might be 
 supposed to look. So he went towards the little 
 mummy-like figure, looked at it steadily, undid the 
 sheet till he caught sight of the lace-edged garment
 
 A PARLEY AND SUEEENDER. 29 
 
 beneath, which seemed to remove from his mind 
 the last lingering doubt — if, indeed, any had entered 
 it. Bat, of course, he was naturally surprised at so 
 sudden and unexpected a conclusion to his mission ; 
 and, as a man of the world, ran over in his secret 
 thoughts all possibilities in contradiction before he 
 would receive as true the facts presented to him. 
 But he turned now evidently quite satisfied, and said, 
 
 * I deeply regret that my presence here has 
 given additional pain — by interrupting so sad a 
 ceremony. But may I ask why the child was to 
 have been buried at sea when the vessel could so 
 easily have returned to land ? ' 
 
 The captain turned a little red in the face as he 
 heard this, and said brusquely, * If you have your 
 duty to perform, so have I mine. Don't you think my 
 owners have reason enough to complain already with 
 this cursed calm ? I can't get forwards, it seems ; 
 but d — me if any earthly power makes me go back ! ' 
 
 ' True, quite true ! ' observed Mr. Pample, pen- 
 sively, and the smile just flickered over his face, but 
 did not seem to think the occasion quite strong 
 enough to warrant its coming forth, so withdrew
 
 30 GUY WATEEMAN. 
 
 shiveringly. ' But as I am now here, and am 
 going back, would it not, my dear madam, be more 
 consonant to your feelings, as it would certainly be 
 to Mr. Dalrymple's, to have it properly interred in 
 the family church and grave ? ' 
 
 The question seemed to perplex the lady to whom 
 it was addressed. She could, she felt, neither evade 
 the suggestion, nor object to it, without perilling the 
 object she held so dear. But what about Phoebe ? 
 She could not, in the presence of Mr. Pample, ask 
 her, yet felt she ought to be asked, and that it was 
 dangerous to speak to her on such a subject, lest 
 the floodgates of her grief should give way, and so 
 again the nearly successful scheme be spoiled. But 
 Phoebe, vvho seemed to be quickening as with a new 
 life since the visit of the steward, did not wait to be 
 spoken to. She said simply, and as though it were 
 merely said in humble affection, 
 
 'Oh, do ma'am, please; I am sure it will be 
 best.' 
 
 Mrs. Dalrymple bent her head in consent to Mr. 
 Pample, who called forward his satellite, and the 
 two together took up the little burden and bore it
 
 A PARLEY AND SURRENDER. 31 
 
 to the vessel's side. There they lowered it to the 
 sailors in the boat. Mr. Paraple, who seemed 
 always to know as exactly when not to speak as to 
 speak, again uncovered and bowed to his lady with 
 deep respect, and at once withdrew. 
 
 Phoebe watched them depart, and again began to 
 rock to and fro, and never shifted her gaze till the 
 boat became a mere spot in the waters ; and then 
 the spot an uncertain film that she could and she 
 could not see ; and at last even that disappeared. 
 But she still followed it, not only to the shore but 
 to the hotel, and along the road, and into her 
 native village, and past her own home, for it was 
 not to stay there — no, it was to go on to the Hall, 
 and there, perhaps, lie in a kind of state, and then 
 be buried, not with such maimed rites as were lately 
 in progress, but in the squire's own vault in the 
 chancel of the old church itself; and there would 
 be rich and numerous mourners, and the rector 
 would be there — he would not leave such a burial 
 to his poor, half-starved curate ; and so her babe — 
 hers, Phosbe Waterman's child — would go to his 
 last resting-place !
 
 32 GUY WATERMAN. 
 
 His last ? Was that so sure ? When the decep- 
 tion was exposed would not the poor sinless babe be 
 taken up again, and removed with ignominy ? The 
 mother's teeth set hard as that part of her vision 
 unrolled itself, and she could almost have shrieked 
 out to those who bore her child away to tell them 
 it was hers, and that they had no right to it. But, 
 she knew there was no retractation possible now. 
 Well, if these things were wrong, was she to blame ? 
 Did she not follow faithfully one who was well able 
 to keep her from going astray ? She began to kiss 
 the boy and try to forget all but him ; but at that 
 moment Mrs. Dalrymple bent down and whispered, 
 
 *0h, Phoebe, my mind misgives me strangely 
 about all this. Come, I grow chill ! Let us retire 
 for the night ! ' 
 
 As they went they heard the captain's loud voice 
 break forth, almost triumphantly, 
 
 ' All hands on deck ! It's coming, boys, at last ; 
 and I'm greatly deceived if we shan't now have 
 one general settlement in full for all the deficiencies 
 of the last six days.'
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 IN THE CABIN AT NIGHT. 
 
 The captain's expectations were not altogether jus- 
 tified for some hours. Light, baffling winds, now 
 from one direction, now from another, just rose, 
 lifted and swelled the sails, and gave a kind of faint 
 push to the hull of the vessel ; but then they died 
 away, — to repeat the process after a time with little 
 increase of effect. 
 
 Mrs. Dalrymple, still weak from her recent ill- 
 ness, and made worse by the agitation of her inter- 
 view with Mr. Pample, lay on a couch in the little, 
 dimly-lighted cabin, looking from time to time on 
 Phcebe and the child, as the latter was being un- 
 dressed and put to bed. But her thoughts were 
 not with them. She was reviewing all the inci- 
 dents of the last few days; was calling up once 
 more the reasons that had impelled her to such a 
 
 VOL. I. D
 
 34 GUY WATERMAN. 
 
 serious course, and she was strangely shaken to find 
 that, while the former seemed to become even more 
 momentous than she had anticipated, the latter 
 seemed to be no longer a full justification. 
 
 Vainly in her alarm did she repeat again and 
 again all the old arguments ; they fell dead upon 
 her soul. The only reflection that promised the 
 least comfort was the idea that it was her body, not 
 her mind, that was in fault. She had overtasked 
 her strength. She would think no more to-night. 
 She would sleep, and, doubtless, all things would 
 resume their former aspect when she waked on the 
 morrow. 
 
 But it was hard to sleep in such a place. The 
 sound of the water against the vessel's side, the 
 occasional heavy thump and roll when the lazy sea 
 was disturbed into action by some fitful but almost as 
 lazy gust, the tramp of the feet over head, the rattling 
 of chains, the shouts of the captain who tried to 
 make the most of every puff to get a bit farther on, 
 all this jarred and agitated her, and kept her long 
 awake in all the torture of restless thoughts and 
 profound self- dissatisfaction.
 
 IN THE CABIN AT NIGHT. 35 
 
 And when she did lose consciousness at last, it 
 was only to wake a in few minutes bathed in cold 
 perspiration, trembling in every limb, and for some 
 time vainly striving to pronounce the word * Phoebe ! 
 Phoebe ! ' But the watchful nurse, in whom an all- 
 powerful engrossing love for the child seemed to 
 supply the place alike of food and sleep, heard her 
 low moaning, and came to her. 
 
 Mrs. Dalrymple took and pressed the outstretched 
 hand, and wdth touching humility even kissed it. 
 Her ow n touch was so death-like that Phoebe was 
 glad when their hands were again separated. Pre- 
 sently, her mistress said, 
 
 * Oh, Phoebe! I have had a dream, too terrible for 
 
 me to relate.' She stopped and almost began to 
 
 laugh hysterically, but checked herself in time, and 
 
 went on more calmly. ' Oh, Pha3be, God's hand is 
 
 upon me. I feel it. I have done wrong. I have 
 
 wounded, cruelly wounded, my husband. And I 
 
 am already stricken through you. One child has 
 
 gone ; perhaps even now the dread fiat has gone 
 
 forth not to spare the other.' 
 
 Phoebe stared in her mistress's face, but there was 
 
 d2
 
 36 GUY WATERMAN. 
 
 in her own eyes a wandering light that showed she 
 was not thinking merely of that which she heard. 
 
 ' Oh, Phoebe ! I cannot any longer resist this in- 
 ward monitor. Wishing to do right, I can no 
 longer be sure I have not done wrong. If so, can I 
 with justice take this boy away from him ? ' 
 
 * Would you,' asked Phoebe, in low, measured 
 tones, as if she weighed each of them most accurately 
 as they passed from her lips, ' would you send him 
 back ? ' 
 
 ' Yes, oh yes ! with you.' 
 
 Mrs. Dalrymple did not see the fierce gleam of 
 joy that shot through the dark, glistening, eager 
 eyes ; or she would, perhaps, in the natural jealousy 
 of a mother's affection, have paused in her new 
 undertaking. 
 
 ' You would, I know,^ she resumed, ' be to him 
 all that anyone but his own mother could.' 
 
 * Oh, ma'am ! I would indeed, and indeed.' 
 
 ' And I shall ask Mr. Dalrymple to leave him in 
 your charge as long as possible, a request that I am 
 quite sure he will not disregard.' 
 
 * And when,' — began Phoebe.
 
 IN THE CABIN AT NIGHT. 37 
 
 * Oh ! at once — at once ! I dare not trust myself 
 with delay. Do you not think I am right ? I know it 
 is against all we have said, and thought, and done ; 
 but do you not think it right, under all the circum- 
 stances ? Oh, Phcebe ! I am inexpressibly shocked 
 and humiliated by all this deception and falsehood. 
 Ah, yes, my eyes are opened ! Help me up ! I 
 will at once seek the captain ; and, before we have 
 lost sight of our own dear English land, you and 
 my boy shall go back ; and then, perhaps, I may 
 rest in peace — perhaps in a few months return in a 
 happier frame of mind.' 
 
 In a few minutes the two women both appeared 
 on the deck, to the great surprise of the captain, who 
 was still apparently whistling (a habit of his) for the 
 wind that was unwilling to come, but that did ap- 
 pear to be coming at last. It was the grey time of 
 dawn. The feeble stars were dying out. A rosy 
 light was just tinging the eastern sky above the line 
 of coast. 
 
 In few words Mrs. Dalryraple told the captain 
 she wished to get Phoebe and the child returned to 
 shore, and begged him to manage it as he best
 
 38 GUT WATERMAN. 
 
 could. He seemed surprised, but not altogether 
 sorry. Perhaps he was secretly glad to get rid. of 
 such troublesome passengers, and he had his misgiv- 
 ings about the propriety of the business of the pre- 
 ceding evening. But he was short and businesslike 
 in his answer. He must be excused going back, 
 for any reason whatever, but he would put the two 
 safely on board one of the vessels that were now 
 slowly passing into the nearest port. He did not 
 wait for acquiescence, but, seizing a trumpet, hailed 
 the nearest brig, which for some time did not or 
 would not hear, but at last altered her course, came 
 near, and demanded what was wanted. 
 
 * To put a woman and child aboard for your har- 
 bour. You'll be well paid.' The captain gave all 
 the strength of his lungs to the last assurance. 
 There was a short silence before any reply was 
 returned, but at last a voice called out, 
 
 'All right! We'll send a boat. The gale's 
 rising. Look alive ! ' 
 
 The two women hurried down into the cabin, 
 where Mrs. Dalrymple began to write a letter to 
 her husband, while Phoebe collected the child's
 
 IN THE CABIN AT NIGHT. 39 
 
 and her own clothes. Long before Mrs. Dalrymple 
 had finished and dried the tear-bedewed epistle, 
 which she seemed to feel might be her last com- 
 munication with her husband, Phoebe had got the 
 luggage into the boat, and was waiting on the deck, 
 w^ith the boy, begging the sailors to be patient, who 
 were threatening to return if they were kept waiting 
 another minute. 
 
 ' Ay, ay ! ' remarked the captain, approvingly. 
 ' This is no time for dawdling or letter-writing. I 
 have been expecting this breeze ever since last night. 
 And, though I was mistaken then, I shan't be mis- 
 taken now.' 
 
 The wind was whistling through the cordage, as 
 though in response to the captain's own favourite 
 note, the sails were bellying and flapping furiously, 
 the 'Black Gull' was rolling vigorously to and fro, 
 and the boat was dashing against the black sides in 
 a manner that produced deep oaths and execrations 
 from those who were in it, when Mrs. Dalrymple at 
 last appeared. Every trace of colour or life had 
 vanished from her face and bloodless lips ; but she 
 held out to Phoebe a little package, apparently a
 
 40 
 
 GUY WATEEMAN. 
 
 book, accompanying the letter, which for better pro- 
 tection she had cased in oiled silk; and then, 
 taking the boy in her arms, embraced him in a long, 
 deep, and quivering silence ; and, when the captain 
 touched her, and she saw him standing there waiting, 
 she resigned the precious burden to Phoebe, who 
 took it with an eagerness she hardly cared to con- 
 ceal ; then Mrs. Dalrymple kissed Phcebe and 
 dropped her hand on the bulwarks, and there waited 
 in deep silence the departure. 
 
 This was now no easy matter. The boat kept 
 dancing up and down in a manner sufficiently alarm- 
 ing to the poor mother, but she saw the captain 
 hand the child down to the man who was in charge 
 of the boat's crew, and who instantly took a seat. 
 Phoebe was in the same way handed down, though 
 she rather leaped than was lifted into the boat, 
 whether from eagerness or the lurching of the vessel 
 no one knew. An instant more, and the boat- 
 hooks and ropes were let go, and the boat was 
 skimming across the tops of the waves towards the 
 expectant ship. 
 
 Half-an-hour afterwards a handkerchief waved
 
 IN THE CABIN AT NIGHT. 41 
 
 from the deck of the ' Black Gull,' and was answered 
 by another similarly waved from the deck of the 
 * Marco Polo ; ' and mother and child, mistress and 
 maid, parted.
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 THE BOAT OF THE * MARCO POLO.' 
 
 Already, as the boat left the sides of the ^ Black 
 Gull,' its occupants had a foretaste of the coming 
 storm. It rolled fearfully to and fro, progress 
 became more and more difficult, and what little way 
 the crew made was more than counterbalanced by 
 the involuntary movements of the ship which they 
 were trying to reach. The fitful gusts of wind were 
 now occurring so frequently, and with so much vio- 
 lence, that the ' Marco Polo ' found it impossible to 
 wait quietly in its original position for the return of 
 the boat, which still laboured heavily on, changing 
 its course just as it saw the * Marco Polo ' change. 
 At first Phoebe saw nothing — thought of nothing but 
 the babe she held in her arms, and which she seemed 
 to treasure with as new a sense of glad possession as 
 if she had just found some costly gem which would
 
 THE BOAT OF THE ' MAECO POLO.' 43 
 
 make all life easy henceforward by its value. But 
 when the sailors, growing fatigued with their ap- 
 parently useless exertions, began to murmur among 
 themselves, she looked up, and scanned their weather- 
 beaten and gloomy faces with growing alarm. One 
 or two she thought scowled at her, as though she 
 and the child were the cause of their difficulty and 
 possible danger. She looked back. The ' Black 
 Guir seemed already a long way off; but there was 
 still the form of Mrs. Dalrymple standing fixed by 
 the bulwarks just where Phoebe had left her. She 
 was interrupted in her gaze by a furious blast which 
 took away her breath, forced the boat for a moment 
 under the waves, and drenched the whole crew. 
 Their position grew more and more desperate. The 
 'Marco Polo' was evidently getting farther away, 
 and seemed to be rocking about as though it had 
 lost all control over its own career. The day began 
 to grow cold and dark, and the rain to fall heavily, 
 which greatly increased Phoebe's discomfort by the 
 violence with which it was every now and then blown 
 into her face, so that she could scarcely lift her head 
 and open her eyes without being blinded by the
 
 44 GUT WATERMAN. 
 
 driving shower, which seemed equally compounded 
 of rain and salt sea-spray. Worst of all, the babe, 
 she fancied, was shivering at her breast, though she 
 had drawn her shawl tightly round it, and tried to 
 make her circling arms additional sources of warmth 
 and comfort. 
 
 Hours passed, and still the gale increased, till at 
 times it blew with all the force of a hurricane. The 
 men sullenly refused any longer to ply the oars, 
 which, indeed, had become obviously useless. The 
 afternoon brought no change. Evening drew on 
 and still they tossed helplessly on the weltering sea. 
 The lightning now began to burst upon them in 
 vivid flashes, and lit up the increasing and awful 
 darkness with a still more awful splendour. A 
 little while longer and they could no longer see the 
 ' Marco Polo,' except when it happened to be shown 
 by one of those lightning gleams. Everywhere 
 around spread a white foam that had a painfully- 
 attractive look under the fitful flashes from the sky : 
 it seemed so like a sinister smile upon a false face 
 which knows death impends over a hated object. 
 Phoebe now caught at intervals through the wild
 
 THE BOAT OF THE ' MAECO POLO.' 45 
 
 uproar of the elements the sound of prayer. It was 
 one of the younger sailors, who prayed in a tone of 
 deep anguish. Another, in apparent calmness, was 
 explaining to his companion what he was to do for 
 him if the speaker should be lost and the listener 
 saved. 
 
 * I'll do as much for you, Jack, if the luck goes 
 with me.' 
 
 * Ay, ay, all right ! Tell my wife if she goes to 
 the agent's she'll find I didn't forget her in case o' 
 accidents like this.' 
 
 While Phoebe listened to this terrible talk on the 
 part of her nearest neighbours, she felt strangely 
 unconscious of her own danger, though exquisitely 
 alive to whatever threatened the child ; or, rather, 
 she seemed to feel that she must and should, some- 
 how or other, in spite of all difficulties, secure her 
 precious burden, and that, if she did so, her own 
 security would, as a matter of course, form a part of 
 the transaction. But it was the babe she thought 
 of, feared for, not herself. 
 
 But, as she pondered over the question of what 
 she could and would do, with an intellect full of
 
 46 GUY WATEEMAX. 
 
 eager, active will, and as she freed her right arm 
 so that it might be ready for any emergency, she 
 was suddenly recalled to her fellow-passengers by 
 the cry, ' Hold hard ! Breakers ! We're going on 
 shore ! ' The words had scarcely passed the man's 
 lips before the boat grazed on a rock, toppled 
 over, w^as buried under a great wave, and when it 
 emerged, was bottom upwards, with all its crew 
 floating in the water. Phoebe had scarcely time to 
 draw breath, to lift the child aloft, and take one 
 hurried glance landwards, before she felt herself 
 again overwhelmed by a billowy, white-crested, 
 gigantic wave. But that single glance had shown 
 to Phoebe something — she knew not what — but at 
 which she had clutched with all the vigorous frenzy 
 of despair. She caught it, and knew no more until 
 she again felt herself rapidly rising from the water, 
 when she was aware of her prize — one of the oars of 
 the boat, which she had grasped so firmly that not 
 all the rush, and tumult, and alarm of the sub- 
 sequent immersion had caused her fingers to relax 
 their hold. This and her clothes made her so buoy- 
 ant that she was able almost continuously to keep
 
 THE BOAT OF THE ' MAECO POLO.' 47 
 
 the child's head above water, even when she herself 
 was too deeply immersed to be able to breathe ; and 
 the very wind, which had done so much injury by 
 blowing the ship resistlessly landwards, now helped 
 her. She soon felt her feet touch the ground ; and 
 that fact cheered her to bear with new hope and 
 fortitude the frightful oncoming of wave after wave, 
 which she always met in the same gallant fashion, 
 with the child raised aloft as long as possible before 
 the critical moment came, and restored to its posi- 
 tion instantly after when the swell had subsided. 
 And so, at last, panting and utterly exhausted, she 
 found herself on her knees, letting go her hold of the 
 oar, and digging her disengaged hand into the beach, 
 that she might hold there until the next wave passed. 
 It did so, and, helped by the tremendous landward 
 rush of the water, she found herself still farther up 
 on the shore, until at last she crawled a few yards 
 farther, and dropped senseless on the sand, uncon- 
 scious of her victory, if she had indeed saved both 
 lives, still more happily unconscious of defeat if the 
 babe were dead and she dying.
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 WASHED ASHORE. 
 
 When Phoebe came to herself she found bending 
 over her two persons, a fisherman and his wife, the 
 latter having a kindly face, which, dimly as it could 
 be seen through the gloom, appeared illumined with 
 gladness as she saw the poor shipwrecked creature 
 at her feet revive. 
 
 ^ Stand by, old woman ! ' said the fisherman, 
 gazing intently in Phoebe's face, * stand by ! she's 
 a heavin' ta' 
 
 He slipped his arm under her, and, raising her 
 
 head from the stones, said gently, 
 
 ' Awast, lass ! What cheer ? what cheer, sweet- 
 heart?' 
 
 Phoebe tried to answer him, but was unable to 
 speak. Life was returning, no doubt, but as yet so 
 slowly and painfully that it gave the wcar\ frame a
 
 WASHED ASHORE. 49 
 
 sensation more akin to that of ordinary death. But 
 while there passed gradually over the pallid face a 
 kind of spasmodic play, and the nerveless lips seemed 
 vainly trying to fashion themselves to the almost 
 forgotten power of speech, there came through them 
 unexpectedly a feeble wail, followed by an attempt 
 to move the utterly helpless body ; and, while the 
 eye began to burn once more with its old fierce 
 brightness, she murmured, 
 
 ' The baby ! the baby ! Is it — 
 
 *Ay, ay, poor body, safe and well in the little 
 black house, yonder. \A hen your a bit better we'll 
 take you on there.' 
 
 Phoebe dropped back thankful but exhausted, and 
 again closed her eyes, while the fisherman's wife 
 gently tried to force open her lips and get some 
 brandy down her throat. She succeeded in making 
 her swallow a few drops, and wonderful indeed was 
 their reviving power. Colour came back to the 
 cheek, movement to the limbs, vivacity to the re- 
 opened eye ; and almost before the fisherman and 
 his wife were aware of their success they saw 
 
 Phcebe sitting up, and looking about her as though 
 VOL. I. t:
 
 50 GUY WATETwMAN. 
 
 all that had passed had been only a painful 
 dream. 
 
 * You didn't deceive me ? ' 
 
 The woman returned her fierce, doubting gaze 
 with a smile of pity. 
 
 ' Me deceive you, my poor lass ! Ain't I a 
 mother? Ain't my own boy a tossin' on the water 
 this same awful night ? How, then, could I go for 
 to deceive you ? Ay, your boy's well enough, 
 though he won't stop crying a minute for anybody, 
 bless him ! We can't none of us quiet him. He 
 knows his mammy ain't there.' 
 
 Was it that Phoebe did not yet feel herself strong 
 enough to hold further conversation, or that there 
 was something so pleasing in the illusion of being 
 supposed to be the mother of the boy that she did 
 not care to destroy it ? She looked down as though 
 her head were yet heavy, and when she again raised 
 it, it was to turn and glance towards the wild sea, 
 where the white foam below and the black sky above 
 were all she could now distinguish. 
 
 * Ay, it's been a evening, this have,' said the fish- 
 erman, who had noticed her furtive yet eager gaze
 
 WASHED ASHORE. 51 
 
 seawards. * And it'll be a night, this will, a night 
 as '11 send ugly things ashore, Lord help us ! Come 
 missus, can you get the poor soul on her feet? What 
 say you, lass, can you heave-to to where yon light's a 
 burning? Come, old woman, lend a hand, will you?' 
 And, so saying, the fisherman wound his strong 
 arm about Phoebe, and raised her to her feet ; but 
 she was so giddy that she would have fallen but for 
 the careful support of her two stranger friends. 
 Again before starting they tried to persuade her to 
 drink from the bottle. Phoebe pushed it away with 
 a gesture of dislike ; and then, moved by some new 
 impulse, snatched it greedily, and, to the surprise of 
 its owners, drank from it as though it contained but 
 so much water. The man looked at his wife with 
 an odd mixture of humour and apprehension, but 
 she seemed by her woman's instinct to understand 
 the act, and said, 
 
 * A brave pull, my lass ! but you are in the right 
 on't Pve seen many a poor drenched lady afore 
 you fly to drink like that, as if they'd been born 
 drunkards, w^hich I am sure you ain't' 
 
 * Ay,' said her husband, * and it's just as nat'ral 
 
 e2 
 
 U Qlr ILL
 
 52 GUY WATERMAN. 
 
 as it is that a ship should lean-to to a foul wind 
 if there ain't a fair one blowin'.' 
 
 And, apparently struck by the truth of the simile, 
 the two remained silent for some minutes, as they 
 walked slowly along the sands, leading and almost 
 lifting Phoebe between them. 
 
 * How many were there in the boat ? ' asked the 
 fisherman presently. 
 
 ' Six, I think ; yes, six men,' slowly replied Phoebe, 
 trying to recall the collective image of the crew as 
 she had seen it under such exciting circumstances. 
 
 ' Ay ! well, then, they're all safe, for I counted 
 just six on 'em straggling along the beach, like so 
 many drunken men.' 
 
 ' And which way did they go ? ' inquired Phoebe, 
 with sudden interest. 
 
 ' Yonder,' asked the fisherman, jerking his thumb 
 in a particular direction along the coast-line. 
 'They seemed to be on the look-out for a ship. 
 Had they left one to bring you ashore ? ' 
 
 * Yes ; ' responded Phoebe, not taking the trouble 
 to correct the partial inaccuracy of the terms of the 
 question and answer.
 
 WASHED ASHOEE. 53 
 
 ' Ay ! Well, they're in the right direction to find 
 her, if she outlives this night ; and a night it will be, 
 too.' 
 
 Again Phoebe stopped, and looked round towards 
 the sea, but not in the direction the sailors had 
 gone. She was looking after another vessel, and 
 straining her eyes through the darkness after a 
 familiar form, that of her mistress. But no natural 
 manifestation of alarm for the safety of that lady, no 
 passionate expressions of the affection she had 
 always professed to feel for her, and which, possibly, 
 she had really felt when she said so, now trembled 
 on her lips, or disturbed her faltering steps. Some 
 all-absorbing, preoccupying thought appeared to 
 shut out everything else ; presently she said, 
 
 * Oh, shall we never reach him ? Don't you hear 
 him crying, so piercing, so faint ? Oh, make haste ! 
 He'll kill himself if I don't get to him. Take me 
 on ! Make me go faster ! I can ! I will ! ' 
 
 And so at last they all reached the little hut 
 built by the side of a ravine, through which some 
 small stream or river ran down to the sea. 
 
 But now a new fear reached the heart of Phopbe.
 
 54 
 
 GUY WATERMAN". 
 
 Either the child had ceased its cries, or she Iiad 
 been deceived. Everything was silent within. The 
 fisherman's wife felt the poor woman whom she held 
 tremble and shiver as she whispered, 
 
 ' He's quiet, quite quiet ! O God ! you havn't 
 deceived me after all, just to get me here ? ' 
 
 There was no time for answer, for as they reached 
 the door Phoebe broke away from them, lifted the 
 latch, went in, cast a hurried' glance round, saw a 
 little cot near the fire, glided to it, dropped on her 
 knees, looked at the face, saw it was indeed the boy 
 himself, in a sleep that had followed his utter ex- 
 haustion, and she could contain herself no longer. 
 She passionately stretched her arms over the little 
 form, and sobbed aloud as she murmured the words, 
 
 'Safe! safe! safe!'
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 THE LAST OF THE ' BLACK GULL.' 
 
 The certainty of the boy's safety, combined with 
 some inner feeling which gave at once an elasticity 
 to Phoebe's frame and a furtiveness to her look, did 
 even more than the warmth and the nourishing 
 supper of porridge to bring back the nurse's strength 
 and equanimity. By degrees she told her host how 
 she had gone with her child from Plymouth on 
 board the * Black Gull' to accompany her mistress on 
 a foreign voyage ; how they had altered their minds, 
 and hailed the ' Marco Polo ; ' and how she and the 
 babe had been wrecked while passing from one 
 to the other. But somehow she did not in her 
 narrative mention the death of her own child, or 
 say one word about the child of her mistress, an 
 omission the more remarkable seeing that Phoebe, 
 whether from fatigue or intention, spoke very slowly
 
 56 GUY WATERMAN. 
 
 and deliberately. On the other hand, she said 
 nothing to contradict the facts omitted from her 
 narrative. 
 
 Pleading great and natural desii-e for rest, Phoebe 
 soon went to bed, for, the fisherman's son being 
 absent, there was a little boxed-in sort of place at 
 her service, that reminded her of the berth in the 
 cabin of the ' Black Gull.' And it seemed, through 
 that very recollection and the many other recollec- 
 tions it awakened, to keep Phoebe tossing about un- 
 easily and wearily, desiring at once the power to go 
 to sleep without any more agitating thoughts, and 
 yet desiring to track through all their dim recesses 
 and lurking-places the shapeless, half-formed fancies 
 that alternately moved her on and drove her back 
 as they more or less revealed themselves out of the 
 surrounding mental darkness. But, whatever the 
 nature of her secret cogitations, they seemed at last 
 to end in a kind of prayer, which she half murmured 
 aloud, for the safety of her mistress in the still- 
 raging storm. That over, Phoebe seemed to turn 
 with increased zest to the baby, who hung at her 
 breast, until a warning cry told her huw she was in-
 
 THE LAST OF THE 'BLACK GULL.' 57 
 
 juring the life which she so passionately and fiercely 
 loved. 
 
 But they both slept at last. 
 
 When Piicebe woke in the morning, the war of the 
 elements was continuing with such unmitigated vio- 
 lence that her first impression was that she was her- 
 self, in some way or other, still exposed to them. 
 But she smiled as she looked on the babe, and saw 
 it smile in her face, and for the moment there was 
 not a care in the world. For Phcebe just then there 
 was neither storm nor trouble. She had the babe 
 which replaced to her the lost one, and she heeded 
 nothing else. 
 
 Hearing her stir, the woman came to her, saying, 
 
 ' Sad work, my lass, sad work ! Here's a ship 
 nearing the bay. They can't keep her off". O dear ! 
 O dear ! the whole beach already is covered with 
 the ruins o' this night. And my boy — my first child, 
 as I love like you love yours, is out yet in one of the 
 smacks. Lord, liel]) us ! Lord, help us ! but the sea's 
 a hard master. Will you come out, lass, and see if 
 it's your ship ? ' 
 
 Before many minutes had passed, Plia^be and the
 
 58 GUT WATERMAN. 
 
 fisherman's wife were hurrying down towards the 
 beach, leaving the child in the care of the neighbour 
 who had so carefully tended it the evening before. 
 
 Yes, there was a ship tumbling and heaving about 
 among the breakers, only two or three miles distant ; 
 and Phoebe fancied she saw the figure of Mrs. Dal- 
 rymple, in the same dress and almost in the same 
 attitude in which she had last seen her. But she 
 could not be sure that it was her, or even that it was 
 the * Black Gull.' With intense anxiety she watched 
 and watched. But as the ship remained in the same 
 spot, getting no nearer to the shore, they began to 
 understand that she must be fast grounded. The 
 fisherman, after a careful glance all round, said to 
 his wife, 
 
 ' I think the lad's safe. The Lord's give him the 
 sense to get far enough out in time. But yon big 
 ship's got the black cap on, as one may say. She 
 may get off from where she is, but it'll only be to 
 get driv' in nearer, and then — Awast ! see there ! 
 see there ! ' 
 
 The vessel had got away, and began to move more 
 freely, as if in deep water ; but the furious gusts
 
 THE LAST OF THE * BLACK GULL.' 59 
 
 soon impelled her on in the same line of destruction 
 as before. She came nearer and nearer. And now 
 Phoebe knew it was the ' Black Gull ' by the broad 
 white horizontal streak with which her builder had 
 decorated the otherwise gloomy-looking vessel. And 
 still it came ; and, it seemed to Phoebe, would reach 
 the shore in safety, and she was glad — truly glad ; 
 and before she had time to check the impulse, said 
 aloud, ' Oh, now if she's but saved, I too am saved ! 
 God grant it ! O God, grant it ! ' Then, a moment 
 after, remembering herself, she turned to her com- 
 panions, but saw they were intent on the sad spectacle 
 around them. The beach was strewn thickly over 
 with wreck — spars of vessels, broken boats, hencoops; 
 even articles of furniture — chairs — but all broken ; 
 the keyboard of a piano, books, bundles of docu- 
 ments, loose letters flying about, exposing possibly 
 secrets the writers had never dreamed of being made 
 known to a single human being beyond the persons 
 to whom they were confided. 
 
 But again their eyes were drawn towards the 
 vessel. And now Phoebe was certain she saw Mrs. 
 Dalrymple on the deck, waving her hands, whether
 
 60 GUT WATERMAN. 
 
 in prayer to Heaven or in recognition of her nurse on 
 the beach, the latter could not possibly discover. 
 But the three spectators soon perceived that the ves- 
 sel was again grounded and rocking to and fro in a 
 terrible manner, while the sea washed over it conti- 
 nually. Phoebe groaned in anguish, and now at 
 last forgot all but her kind and confiding mistress. 
 She held out her hands, she waved her scarf, she 
 sent forth her voice trying to make it convey some 
 word or tone of comfort ; but the hubbub of the storm 
 silenced such puny sounds ; and all that Phoebe could 
 do was to fix her eyes, as though under some terrible 
 fascination, upon that slight, graceful figure as it 
 reappeared every few moments from out of the 
 caldron of seething foam. The ' Black Gull ' had 
 been strongly built, and she had before now wea- 
 thered many a terrific gale, but her last hour had 
 come. No work of human hands could live long in 
 such a position. The masts went first, and with 
 them went full half the small crew, who had mounted 
 high in the hope of getting above the incessant seas 
 which washed over the deck, and to get an outlook 
 that might possibly be of service when the last
 
 THE LAST OF THE 'BLACK GULL.' 61 
 
 Struggle for dear life must take place. A few 
 minutes later, and the ship divided into two pieces 
 right before the eyes of the stricken spectators ; one 
 part went rolling away and disappeared, the other 
 and larger part remained towering above the rock 
 on which it had grounded, and upon that piece was 
 Mrs. Dalrymple, now apparently the only living soul 
 on the melancholy deck. She looked so moveless 
 that Phoebe began to fancy she must be dead, and 
 only retained her standing posture through the fas- 
 tenings that she had probably caused the sailors to 
 throw about her to enable her to keep her place on 
 the rocking slopes of the deck. Again Fhcebe tried 
 to make her voice reach. And there was a feeble 
 gesture that seemed to be an answer — a sort of half- 
 raising of the arm and a movement of the hand, as 
 though to wave it, and that was all. The limb 
 dropped to the side, and the whole figure kept its 
 motionless but upright state as before. 
 
 Phoebe was not left much longer in her agony of 
 
 suspense. A tremendous sea caught the mutilated 
 
 wreck, seemed to shake it violently to and fro in its 
 
 trong grasp, as though to dissolve out of it what-
 
 62 GUY WATEKMAN. 
 
 ever principle of strength might yet remain, and 
 then, faUing away, exposed, once more and for the 
 last time, the half-deck of the * Black Gull' and 
 of Mrs. Dalrymple's figure, with her head drooping 
 on one side. Scarcely had another minute elapsed 
 before the immense black piece of wreck dropped 
 asunder in countless pieces, and was floating on, or 
 buried beneath the waves. 
 
 For hours the three remained on the beach watch- 
 ing to see if any dead bodies would be thrown up on 
 the beach. But they saw none. And neither then 
 nor afterwards — neither in life nor in death — did a 
 single one of all the crew and passengers of the 
 * Black Gull ' reach the shore, which they had thought 
 it so impossible to quit, during the many days of the 
 preceding calm.
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 PHCEBE. 
 
 Melancholy as the neighbourhood must have 
 seemed to Phoebe, after all she had endured in it, 
 she did not seem able to get away from it for a day 
 or two after the events described in our last chapter. 
 It might be that she did not yet feel strong enough 
 for travel, or she may have wished to make quite 
 sure of the fate of her mistress. Her inquiries after 
 her and after the crew were unceasing ; and always 
 she obtained the same reply — that there was and 
 could be no hope whatever : all were lost. She per- 
 suaded the fisherman to go up and down the beach 
 for miles each w^ay, to inquire ; but still the report 
 was that no single person had escaped from this the 
 latest wreck on the coast — the wreck of the * Black 
 Gull.' At last even Phoebe herself seemed to be 
 quite satisfied that there was no possibility of hear-
 
 64 GUY WATERMAN. 
 
 ing anything more of her deceased mistress, or of 
 the crew with which she had sailed ; and then only 
 it was that she began to hasten preparations for 
 departure. 
 
 Having paid her entertainers liberally for their 
 hospitality, who took with reluctance what she offered, 
 though poor enough to be very grateful for such 
 occasional assistance, and having got them to show 
 her the way to a certain roadside inn, four or five 
 miles distant, where she could obtain, on the morrow, 
 a coach for Plymouth, she set off alone with the 
 baby, refusing to allow either the man or his wife to 
 accompany her. While she is wearily pursuing her 
 way along the dusty road, let us glance briefly at 
 her person, history, and character. 
 
 There were some spiteful people in her native 
 village who maintained that it was only Phortbe 
 Waterman's black eyes, her ready tongue, and her 
 good notions of dress, w^hich gave the impression of 
 her being pretty, and perhaps they were right ; for 
 she certainly lacked the pink and white skin which, 
 in a Branhape girl, was thought essential to beauty. 
 Then, too, her cheek bones were rather high, and
 
 PHCEBE. 65 
 
 her mouth was large. In spite, however, of these 
 defects, sallow complexion, high cheek bones, and 
 large mouth, her bitterest rival was obliged to con- 
 fess to herself that there was no girl in the village 
 who could be more fascinating than Phoebe Water- 
 man when she chose. When the blood was flushing 
 up to her brown cheek, and her lips, bright as a 
 scarlet geranium petal were apart smilingly, over 
 her sound white teeth, and when her eyes instead of 
 flashing with suspicion or ridicule as they very often 
 did, wore a look of tenderness half yearning, half 
 weary, then there was colour enough in her face ; 
 and life and soul and beauty enough to turn wiser 
 heads than those which were wont to bend in the 
 coloured light of the windows of old Branhape 
 church, in search of a new sensation. 
 
 Hers was one of those peculiar natures in which 
 good and evil seem to lie in such close and intimate 
 union that it is hardly possible to tell from which of 
 the two their many questionable acts flow. She was 
 of a loving but also of an exacting disposition ; and 
 her love would be very apt to turn to hate if any 
 injury were done to it, or was even supposed by 
 
 VOL. I. F
 
 6Q GUY WATERMAN. 
 
 Phoebe to be done to it. So, also, she was honest 
 in a peculiar and limited way. She would not for 
 the world have stolen any person's gold or gems, but 
 she would by no means be so particular as to their 
 good name if they had the ill-luck to offend her. 
 Her honesty, in fact, did not mean true principle ; 
 it was a thing of custom, of prudence, of liking ; 
 but not a spontaneous development of character that 
 must be honest simply because it is true, straight- 
 forward, and self-controlled. Phoebe was thought 
 as a girl to be particularly high-spirited, but there 
 were occasions on which it was found she could 
 do things that even people quite undistinguished by 
 the quality would have hesitated to commit. 
 Through these contradictory traits Phcebe grew up 
 as one who was more feared and respected than 
 liked or loved in the village of her birth. Suitors 
 held aloof, or came only to retreat in a short time. 
 And then, in a kind of wilful acknowledgment and 
 resentment of the fact, Phoebe suddenly married the 
 man whom she least liked of all who had inclined 
 towards her. This was Stephen Waterman, a 
 jobbing carpenter, a well-meaning, industrious man
 
 PHCEBE. 67 
 
 of thirty, but who had no single quality calculated 
 to win Phoebe's regard. He was evidently a poor 
 creature in his wife's own estimation — servile to the 
 rich, hard to those of the poor who were poorer than 
 himself, thinking always of how to get on in the 
 world, but never showing the least power for 
 achieving his aim. Why, then, had she married 
 him ? Because she heard the villagers talking of 
 her failing courtships, and of their belief that she 
 would die an old maid. So she put down that 
 gossip in her own fierce, impulsive way, and, after- 
 wards, mourned inly the mistake she had made. 
 
 Under these circumstances, the marriage was not 
 for a year or two a happy one. Her imperious 
 temper worried Stephen so much that he began to 
 stay out of an evening, to drink, and to neglect his 
 work, and so gradually he lost position as a jobbing 
 master carpenter, and was obliged to shut up Iiis 
 little workshop in the neighbouring field and go out 
 as a journeyman. This only increased Phoebe's 
 disgust. But when the squire married and brought 
 home his Roman Catholic bride, and Phoebe, also a 
 
 Catholic, was chosen to be her maid, things grew 
 
 f2
 
 68 GUY WATERMAN. 
 
 brighter in the cottage of the Waterraans as well as 
 in the mansion of the Dalrymples. Phoebe found 
 in her mistress just the kind of person who could 
 best bring forth, alike for good and evil, all the 
 latent characteristics of her nature. Mrs. Dalrymple 
 did not see Phoebe's faults, and she more than ap- 
 preciated her merits. A great confidence arose 
 between them. It wonderfully suited Phoebe's 
 proud disposition to be so treated. And, in return, 
 she became passionately attached to her gentle and 
 winning mistress. After a while a new bond united 
 them. Within a short time of each other they both 
 bore children, and both sons ; but the lady's con- 
 stitution, unlike the more robust one of Phoebe, gave 
 way at the critical period of maternity, and all the 
 resources of medical skill and knowledge had to be 
 taxed to save the lives of mother and son. Both, 
 however, were saved. But the doctor would not 
 allow Mrs. Dalrymple to nurse her boy ; and it was 
 then that the thought rose simultaneously in the 
 minds of both mistress and maid that the latter 
 might suckle the two infants. And thus it was that 
 Phoebe found two children to love — two that seemed
 
 PHCEBE. 69 
 
 to find a mother in her ; and her loving and large 
 heart seemed only to expand and become more and 
 more capable and happy as she gazed on the two 
 infants on her knee, so alike in age, feature, and 
 everything but social condition. That last matter 
 Phoebe dismissed, as she did everything else that 
 interfered with her mood or wishes, with a contemp- 
 tuous scorn that forbade all further question. 
 
 How proud she looked, and with what delight she 
 listened, as the neighbours came in and speculated 
 as to which was the finest of the two ! She grew 
 quite gracious, even humble, at such times. But 
 on other occasions she would slily exchange dresses, 
 and try the effect on some of the village gossips ; 
 and these, as she expected, would for the most part 
 be just as full of wonder and admiration at the 
 future squire she now chose to present to them as 
 they had previously been when that young gentle- 
 man was really there in his own proper garb. And 
 when one day, in the exuberance of her delight, she 
 confessed the trick she had been playing, she was 
 still more pleased by the excuse that was given for 
 the mistake :
 
 70 GUY WATEKMAN. 
 
 ' Well, to be sure ! and this is really yours, Mrs. 
 Waterman ! But there, o' course, the clothes is all 
 a person can tell 'em by ; for to anybody not seein' 
 'em every hour o' the day as you do they're just as 
 like as two peas, that they are, Mrs. Waterman : 
 bless 'em ! ' 
 
 And this birth of a child thus connected in point 
 of time with the growing favour of the Dahymples 
 gave quite a new position to Phoebe as regards her 
 husband. He began again to be sober, attentive, 
 submissive, and respectful, and Phoebe liked his 
 conduct so much that she almost began to think she 
 liked him. All things, in short, contributed to give 
 a kind of elation to Phoebe's mind and character at 
 this period of her history. And just then it was 
 that she received from her mistress the letter with 
 which our history commenced, and the consequences 
 of which were to be so momentous. 
 
 The reader will now be in better condition than 
 before to understand the influence of the events we 
 have recently described ; and will be able, we hope, 
 to follow the somewhat tortuous course of Phoebe's 
 thoughts on the night of the day on which we left
 
 PHCEBE. 71 
 
 her struggling along with her precious burden 
 towards the wayside inn where she was to sleep. 
 
 She has put the child to bed in the large old- 
 fashioned four-poster in the corner of the great 
 room ; and, as she satisfies herself he is asleep, 
 seems to raise her arms in a kind of weariness that 
 somehow does not appear to agree with the wander- 
 ing and bright light in her eyes. There is no rest 
 there, evidently. She sits down in a chair, but not 
 like one who seeks the repose it may give ; on the 
 contrary, there is an undefinable something in her 
 attitude and gestures that suggests she feels called 
 to immediate but difficult action. She looks rest- 
 lessly first at this, and then at that object that lies 
 in the line of her vision, but she evidently sees them 
 not, but a something farther, the precise nature of 
 which she vainly strives to scan. She gets uj) im- 
 patiently and goes to the wide window which com- 
 mands a distant view of the sea ; but at the first 
 glance she stops, draws down the blind, and turns 
 away. 
 
 What is she trying to decide as she stands grasj)-
 
 72 GUY WATEKMAN. 
 
 ing the bed-post with both hands and pressing her 
 forehead against it in such hard thought ? What 
 temptation is upon her ? What temptation has 
 been following closer and closer upon her heels ever 
 since that motionless figure at the mast of the 
 * Black Guir fell upon the stormy waters — nay, 
 ever since the empty garments of her dead child had 
 been filled by his living likeness ? 
 
 In vain a still, small voice cries within her, * Re- 
 sist I resist ! resist ! ' Her passionate heart makes 
 answer, ' Has she not resisted long and bravely ? ' 
 God knows she did, again and again, till she saw 
 that everything seemed to be shaped for that very 
 end she most desired. Why was she chosen to 
 suckle him from the very hour of his birth ? Why 
 was she drawn away from her own home with her 
 own child but to be ready to take care of him ? Oh, 
 she can understand now that, if for any cause her 
 babe was doomed, God knew that she would become 
 a desperate and wicked woman if He did not provide 
 for her this solace ? Besides, had she not bought 
 him with her own flesh and blood ? It was the 
 voyage — she was sure of it — that killed her babe ;
 
 PHCEBE. 73 
 
 and she for whom she made the sacrifice could now 
 repay her without herself feeling the cost. 
 
 But was it really true that discovery was impos- 
 sible ? The crew of the boat that escaped did not 
 know but that she was the child's mother, and 
 would be sure to think it must be so. And of the 
 other crew that knew the truth not a soul remained 
 alive. Was it not wonderful? And should she 
 refuse the chance thus offered to her? The stew- 
 ard, too, went away from the ' Black Gull ' so sure 
 that he carried with him his master's son that no 
 suspicions could ever arise if only she held her 
 peace. Yes, that made a great difference. She 
 would not need to say a word, but let other people 
 speak for her. Why, then, not hold her peace, 
 since that would gain all she wanted ? 
 
 Ay ! but the sin, the wrong, the father's double 
 loss ! But, then, must he not already have got over 
 the grief about the child ? and as to the loss of his 
 wife, in that she could not help him. 
 
 Still she needs for her satisfaction some better 
 reason. And is it likely (she says to herself) she 
 should ever have conceived this thing if she had not
 
 74 GUY WATEBMAN. 
 
 had a most weighty reason ? What did the squire's 
 own wife — this boy's own mother say ? Stay ! she 
 would again read the letter, though knowing most 
 of it already by heart. 
 
 Phoebe began slowly and with an almost painful 
 effort to read Mrs. Dalrymple's letter to her, sen- 
 tence by sentence, as though conscious any new 
 meaning must escape, on account of her familiarity 
 with its contents, unless she took it most slowly and 
 determinedly. When she had once read it through 
 she went back again and read aloud the following 
 passage : — 
 
 ' Think, too, what it would be for you knowingly 
 to let my boy suck poison from you. Yet is it a 
 less matter to allow anyone, even a father, to poison 
 his soul ? O no ! ' 
 
 She had scarcely finished before she again read 
 the sentences with a voice almost tremulous with 
 exultation ; and, when she had done so, went towards 
 the bed and gazed long and yearningly on the slum- 
 bering babe before she again resumed the thread of 
 her reflection. 
 
 Strange ! Often as she had vaguely thought of
 
 PHCEBE. 75 
 
 those word? slie never till now saw their full mean- 
 ing, and now they came to her as from the grave. 
 She would not hesitate. This should decide her. 
 
 And yet it did not. She still wandered about the 
 chamber, hour after hour, full of a restless agitation 
 that she could not allay. A new thought now 
 attracted her, though, like all her other thoughts, 
 it came tinged with the atmosphere of her own 
 peculiar mind. 
 
 She would be wronging the child, God help her ! 
 That's what it was that kept her back so long. She 
 should live to hear him curse her when he found 
 out the secret. But he could not find it out. Ay ! 
 but how was he to grow up by her side year after 
 year, and she to know what a secret gulf existed 
 between them, to the edge of which they might any 
 day unexpectedly come ? But hasn't she answered 
 that already ? He cannot know, shall not know ! 
 
 Well ; but, if she were to be his mother hence- 
 forward, must she not act with a mother's fore- 
 thought? What can she give him but poverty in 
 exchange for his birthright of fortune? Must he 
 grow up a workman who ought to be a gentle-
 
 76 GUY WATERMAN. 
 
 man ? But that is nonsense. He shall be a gen- 
 tleman ! She knows she can compass that. * Where 
 there's a will there's a way ; * and has she not the 
 will ? So it all comes back to the old point. Who 
 but she can save him from the fate his mother 
 so much dreaded — that of becoming a heretic ? 
 
 Just then there was a noise, and the blind flapped 
 and moved uneasily, as though some hand were 
 moving it from behind. Phoebe gazed, and felt 
 herself trembling as with the burden of her own 
 overwrought fancies. She thought she saw through 
 the blind a dark outline, strangely like the figure of 
 her dead mistress ; and for a moment she held her 
 breath wonderingly, as if expecting to see some 
 apparition that would indeed shake her in her guilty 
 designs. But with a scornful laugh she repelled 
 the absurd thought, went to the window, drew up 
 the blind, and let it down again, after an ostenta- 
 tious look-out upon the midnight sky and country. 
 But she seemed to know what secret spring it was 
 that had for the moment so shaken her — the remem- 
 brance that her mistress's last act and her last 
 words had all been in direct opposition to her letter,
 
 PHCEBE. 77 
 
 and that she had striven by them to make amends 
 for her previous error. 
 
 Oh ! but then Phoebe understood all that. Her 
 good mistress was a woman, and found it easier to 
 think the right thing than to do it. She wrote her 
 true mind in the letter, and before she had been 
 again enfeebled by sickness and mental distress. 
 There was her warrant. He was her child. 
 
 ' Mine ! Dost hear, darling ? Thou art mine, 
 mine only, evermore ! * 
 
 So saying she went to the bed, and seemed about 
 to kneel as in prayer and thankfulness, but some- 
 how she stopped in time and did not add that last 
 guilt, much as she desired it, to the act she had de- 
 termined to perform. 
 
 Well, well, there was an end. Now to think 
 how to get back to the village, how to shape her 
 story, which she should be sick enough of telling, 
 doubtless, before she had done with it. And, above 
 all, how was she to meet him — the husband of her 
 dead mistress, the father of this babe — her babe, 
 hers^ as she now called him ? 
 
 Well, she was weary, and could sleep now, she
 
 78 GUY WATERMAN. 
 
 thought And she would teach herself now and 
 evermore that this had been the best day's work of 
 her life, and it shouldn't be her fault if she didn't 
 make it the same for him. There was wealth in 
 the world besides that of Branhape, other distinc- 
 tions than those of a country fox-hunting squire. 
 
 ' Come, darling ! ' she cried, dropping wearily 
 beside him ; ' come, then, wake up, and give me one 
 little smile, one precious kiss. No, no, no ! Don't 
 be frightened ! There, there, there ! Oh, hush, 
 hush ! my own darling ! God bless the baby, how 
 scared it looks. There, darling, there 1 ' 
 
 She lay down, but not at once to sleep. No ; for 
 whole hours the blind flapped in and out as if 
 agitated by the touch of a mortal hand. The wind 
 roared, and the voice of the sea rose loud and turbu- 
 lent. Phoebe pressed both hands to her ears and 
 writhed in anguish ; for henceforward she felt that 
 that voice might ever be to her as the cry of an 
 accusing spirit.
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 OF THE TWO ROADS — WHICH ? 
 
 The first eiFects of crime on character have a 
 painful interest for all students of human nature. 
 Crime itself is so terrible a thing in its consequences 
 upon all those who are destined to be its victims 
 that we may be sure it does not, while passing over 
 the hearts and minds of the criminals, leave them 
 unscathed. Apart from all questions of legal punisli- 
 ment, there goes on for ever a species of unseen but 
 most certain retribution by which the wrongdoer is 
 made to become his own judge and executioner, 
 and which does not allow him to wait for the often 
 slow processes of discovery and prosecution, but 
 seems to be born with the crime itself, and to pur- 
 sue it ever like its shadow. Or rather, perhaps, it 
 may be likened to the ghost of his dead innocence 
 which haunts him evermore, and wliich can neither
 
 80 GUY WATEKIIAN. 
 
 be spoken to nor laid by any art of man. How 
 was it now with Phoebe ? 
 
 When she woke next morning, no one who 
 looked on her could have guessed that conscience 
 was at work there, or that remorse of any kind was 
 ever likely to have a place in her breast. Such an 
 observer would have been struck, perhaps, by her 
 strangely-subdued manner ; and had he previously 
 known Phoebe, such a trait w^ould doubtless have 
 appeared sufficiently startling. But in the absence 
 of this knowledge one who watched her operations 
 could only have said, ' Here is a kind, thoughtful, 
 devoted mother. How absolutely her range of 
 thought and feeling seems circumscribed within 
 these four walls. Or if the vacant eye seems at 
 times to pierce into something through and beyond 
 them, it is obviously connected with the thoughts 
 of that child's future, which naturally engage a 
 mother's attention.' 
 
 No, there is nothing strange or peculiar now in 
 ^ any of Phoebe's notions. She dresses herself and 
 babe as though nothing remarkable had ever hap- 
 pened to either, or was expected to happen in the
 
 OF THE TWO ROADS — WHICH? 81 
 
 immediate future. The fact was that Phoebe had 
 really persuaded herself she was doing no special 
 harm by her act, and that she might be doing a 
 great deal of good. Then, again, the time for 
 hesitation, she thought, had passed, and the time 
 for action come. And with Phoebe, as with all 
 vigorous natures, action itself is a wonderful 
 remedy for all sorts of mental troubles. So with 
 only one present token of change — the preter- 
 natural quiet as though of a great peace or else of 
 a great awe, which has suddenly come over her — 
 she bustles quickly through all her little pre- 
 parations for the journey, settles with the landlord 
 for her night's lodging, and then, putting on her 
 bonnet, and taking the child in her arras, she sits 
 outside the inn, on a little bench, waiting for the 
 comincf of the coach. 
 
 o 
 
 But when she is fairly mounted on its top and 
 finds herself whirling away towards Plymouth, and 
 has nothing more to do but to watch for those 
 occasional smiles from the sucking child that at once 
 illumine all Phoebe's atmosphere, however dark at 
 the moment it may happen to be — when she finds, 
 
 VOL. I. Cr
 
 82 GUY WATERMAN. 
 
 in a word, action stops, because there is nothing she 
 can do, she also finds that reflection will begin, 
 and thai, through reflection, there is a great deal to 
 suffer. It is not easy to follow the painful tangle 
 of her thoughts ; but they may be supposed to run 
 through something like the following course — 
 
 Will Mr. Dalrymple know of the death of his 
 lady before she gets home, or will Phoebe herself 
 be the first to make known that additional calamity ? 
 But no, she thinks, he must have been waraed by 
 the magnitude of the storm, and he would have 
 been sure to have inquired about the fate of the 
 ' Black Gull,' and to have learned all. Or if he had 
 not yet fully satisfied himself, he must be now 
 getting alarmed and be making inquiries. Perhaps 
 he might be in this very neighbourhood now. Per- 
 haps she might meet him before the day was over — 
 nay, during the next hour, or even on the very next 
 vehicle. 
 
 Then Phoebe hurriedly began to prepare herself 
 or the questioning she would have to undergo, and 
 she tried to shape out a consistent tale from all her 
 answers.
 
 OF THE TWO ROADS — WHICH? 83 
 
 Scarcely was this theme run through before 
 another rose in its place and began still more pain- 
 fully to agitate Phoebe. Would the burial of her 
 own child be over before she returned ? Did she 
 wish it might be ? She could not answer either 
 question at all to her satisfaction. There was a 
 kind of instinctive cunning in Phoebe's nature which 
 told her it would be best for her that all should be 
 over before she reappeared in the village — that is, 
 that Mr. Dalrymple should know of the loss of his 
 wife and have got over the task of burying his sup- 
 posed child. Phoebe felt it would make a great 
 difference as to her powers of self-control if she 
 found her auditors generally prepared with the 
 knowledge of her calamitous story, and seeking only 
 from her such details as might best harmonize with 
 the expected confirmation. On the other hand, the 
 woman's passionate heart yearned strongly towards 
 her dead babe. She wanted to see it again, even 
 though in death, and surrounded by persons and 
 things that would forbid all display of a mother's 
 emotion. Nay, there was even added to this desire 
 the inconsistent wish to enjoy the spectacle of such a 
 
 g2
 
 84 GUY WATERMAN. 
 
 ceremony, and to solace herself with the secret pride 
 that it was her child who was being thus mourned 
 and honoured. 
 
 These reflections disturbed Phoebe more than 
 she liked to acknowledge, and made her half wish, 
 on reaching Plymouth, that she could delay her 
 return till it was certain that Mr. Dalrymple must 
 know all that she desired him to know. But, as she 
 found it would be yet a couple of days, perhaps 
 three, before she could get across the country by 
 the different coaches to her home, which was 
 situated in one of the midland counties of England, 
 she decided to pursue her journey with no further 
 delays than might be advisable to secure the com- 
 fort and well-being of the child ; and, so deter- 
 mining, she remembered that this must be her 
 wisest plan, as she was bound to recollect that 
 everyone would consider it to be her duty to hurry 
 home in order to be the first to take to Mr. Dal- 
 rymple the particulars of his bereavement. 
 
 Three days later, a woman, with a babe in her 
 arms, who has been toiling wearily along the road
 
 OF THE TWO KOADS WHICH? 85 
 
 since the coach set her down at the distance of two 
 or three miles from her destination, stops as she 
 comes to a place where the road divides into two 
 branches. One of these goes apparently towards 
 the thick pine wood, where, gleaming between the 
 trees in the light of the morning sun, which just 
 catches and gilds the windows, appears Branhape 
 Hall ; while the other goes winding away through 
 the thick and high hedgerows towards the village of 
 the same name. Though the latter cannot really 
 be seen from the spot where the woman pauses, 
 resting against a bank, she seems to see it well 
 enough, if one may judge by her earnest and pro- 
 tracted gaze in that direction. For some time she 
 remains as if buried in thought, though it is per- 
 haps simply to rest herself, for the child is heavy, 
 and the day sultry, and the woman looks jaded and 
 depressed. But the light and courage in the eye 
 burn fiercely as ever as she turns from the one road 
 to the other, and ponders over the question that 
 they seem to put, — Of the two roads, which ? You 
 must commit yourself at last. You are here ; you 
 can yet retreat if you will. Go this way to the Hall,
 
 86 GUY WATERMAN. 
 
 tell the whole story just as it really happened — 
 omitting only certain thoughts and temptations of 
 your own — and you will have no further difficulty. 
 You will even be welcome for his sake who now 
 hangs at your breast. Or, take the other road, 
 steal quietly into the village, and everyone will 
 be glad to see you. No one will doubt it is your 
 own child you bring back. But don't forget that in 
 doing this you must abide by the chosen path : there 
 will be — can be — no safe return hither. You may 
 be met personally by some of the villagers, and, if 
 they do not meet you on the road to the Hall, how 
 will you afterwards explain yourself if you change 
 your secret purpose ? Whatever you do, don't at 
 one and the same time give up the child, and yet 
 let your previous intentions be discovered, or even 
 guessed.' 
 
 In some such language as this did the two roads 
 seem to appeal to Phoebe's agitated, fervid mind ; and 
 terrible once more was the struggle produced in her 
 breast. She felt a strong want of an adviser, for- 
 getting that in guilt there can be no adviser without 
 increase of danger, or defeat of the meditated aim.
 
 OF THE TWO EOADS — WHICH? 87 
 
 Still Phop.be had a sort of adviser, a very innocent 
 one, and yet the very worst that she could have re- 
 sorted to for aid at such a conjuncture. During 
 these critical days Phoebe always resolved her doubts 
 by taking a long look at the babe ; and by reviewing 
 the incidents which that sweet, chubby countenance 
 invariably recalled — a review which generally be- 
 came dim through tears and which always ended in 
 caresses. And then ? Why, then, Phoebe decided, 
 as she decides now, when she hurredly rises from 
 her half-sitting posture and turns determinedly to- 
 wards the village. 
 
 And once more she begins to recapitulate the 
 many resolves she has previously made with regard 
 to what she is to say, and how she is to evade the 
 remotest danger of exciting doubts as to the truth of 
 her story. Surely, she thinks, and again she tries 
 to impress it as a fact upon herself, all is easy and 
 clear. She has only to abide by the deception 
 which Mrs. Dalrymple and the captain had practised 
 upon Mr. Pample ; has only to stick to it that it was 
 the Dalrymples' child that had died and been taken 
 away from the deck of the ' Black Gull,' and there
 
 88 GUY WATEEMAN. 
 
 can be nothing left to excite wonder or difficulty. 
 Of course, Mr. Dalrymple would expect that 
 Phcebe and her babe would return when the former 
 was no longer wanted in her original capacity ; and, 
 of course, Phoebe's husband would look at things in 
 the same way. And if they were satisfied who else 
 would dare to doubt ? As Phoebe almost arro- 
 gantly asked herself that question a vision of a cer- 
 tain neighbour flitted across her eyes, and seemed 
 to give her a feeling of inexplicable disquiet. But 
 Susan Beck was such a strange woman ! You could 
 never make her out, and yet she seemed to have 
 found the knack of making out everybody else. 
 But while Phoebe was thinking of how she should 
 respectively address herself at the beginning to these 
 very different persons, who made up her world, she 
 became aware of certain sounds that made her stop, 
 intently listening. For some time she could not 
 distinguish anything clearly, and the road took a 
 turn a short way off, so that she could not see far 
 along it. But at last she could hear a muffled 
 tramp as of many feet, not men's only, she fancies, 
 but horses' ; and soon she hears wheels. Another
 
 OF THE TWO KOADS — WHICH? 89 
 
 moment of suspense, and, as the wind stirs her hair, 
 it brings with it the sound of a distant bell — tolling 
 solemnly. Yes, evidently, it is the dead child's 
 funeral ! 
 
 Phoebe seemed at first to be stricken as with sud- 
 den paralysis. An inarticulate murmur passed 
 through her white lips, and, scarcely knowing what 
 she was doing, she turned as if to flee. She glanced 
 furtively round, but there was no one in sight ; and 
 Phoebe, wondering at that, began to understand that 
 the people were, doubtless, all collected at a cer- 
 tain lodge gate opening into Branhape Park ; and 
 which, according to a tradition of the place, was 
 never used except when some one passed from the 
 Hall to the last resting-place in the chancel vault of 
 Branhape Church. 
 
 While Phoebe hesitated as to her course she re- 
 membered that by turning off into a neighbouring 
 field she could gradually ascend to the high and 
 densely-wooded ground that overlooked the road 
 immediately opposite the lodge on the other side. 
 With her usual impulsiveness, she had no sooner 
 thought of this place than she longed eagerly to be
 
 90 GUY WATERMAN. 
 
 there in time to see the entire procession. Breath- 
 lessly she toiled along with her dear but heavy 
 burden, not forgetting every now and then to look 
 round across the sloping fields for the presence of 
 any solitary labourer who might afterwards speak of 
 her movements. But she saw no one. The funeral 
 had, doubtless, drawn everyone away, either to the 
 lodge, or to the village, or to the churchyard, or to 
 join in the procession. 
 
 Was the funeral over, or was the procession only 
 now leaving the Hall ? That question again revived 
 for Phoebe the old one, so often put down, yet so 
 persistent in its recurrence. Could she yet arrest 
 all this mistake and avert much of Mr. Dalrymple's 
 grief ; or, was her child already lying, after all these 
 worldly honours in the squire's vaults, never again 
 to be disturbed except through her revelations ? 
 
 She soon reached the spot, and, having made a 
 path with some difficulty through the dense under- 
 wood where the brambles above, and the frequently 
 sudden and dangerous descent below, continually 
 warned her that if she did not repress her impatience 
 she and the child might be precipitated headforemost
 
 OF THE TWO ROADS — WHICH? 91 
 
 into the very way of the procession in the sunken 
 road, she at last found herself sitting on a little 
 mossy stone, peering through bushes that allowed 
 her to see all while keeping herself quite unseen. 
 
 And now she could hear plainly the procession 
 coming from the Hall along the park road, though 
 it had not yet reached the iron gates. Her child, 
 then, was not buried. And she could also both see 
 and hear the people who were collected in the lane and 
 about the gates. They were chiefly feeble old men, 
 women, and children. No doubt the husbands and 
 grown-up sons had gone to the front of the Hall, or 
 to the church, if they were not indeed following the 
 procession itself. She tried to understand what the 
 people said, but only got confused in the attempt to 
 put together the broken bits of talk that reached 
 her. But she thought one woman was explaining 
 to a deaf old man whom she called father why it was 
 so grand a funeral — that it was like a funeral for 
 the mother as well as the child. Phoebe even fancied 
 that the woman was saying something about a little 
 coffin that was full being placed in one that was 
 empty. Phoebe's heart began also to fill in her
 
 92 GUY WATERMAN. 
 
 breast, and she thought she should choke. But she 
 must be silent ; even a sigh might direct some 
 curious youthful eye and foot towards her secret 
 hiding-place. 
 
 At last the head of the melancholy procession 
 appears in the park road, just a little way within 
 the gates; and advances, passes through them, 
 emerges into the high road, and then, under the 
 direction of a busy-looking gentleman in the 
 blackest of black clothes with long weepers stream- 
 ing from his hat, turns to the left, and moves lugu- 
 briously along towards the village and the church. 
 Nothing that the art of the undertaker could do 
 while exercised under a certain sense of Mr. Pam- 
 ple's supervision, who knew his master's tastes too 
 well to permit of any obviously-unnecessary display, 
 was omitted ; but whether it was that Phoebe had 
 dwelled so long on the idea of this day's funeral 
 magnificence as to be unable at last to appreciate 
 the less effective reality, or that she did not feel, as 
 the manager of the procession did, the propriety, 
 under the circumstances, of making as little show- 
 as was practicable with a family of such rank and
 
 OF THE TWO ROADS — WHICH? 93 
 
 standings she certainly felt disappoinled for a time 
 at what she saw. But when she began to catch a 
 glimpse of the long line of carriages in the rear, 
 then she again felt her bosom swell with a strange 
 mixture of pride and alarm. All this for her child. 
 Really hers ! 
 
 But now the hearse is passing. Phoebe bends 
 forward, almost drops the babe she carries in an 
 instinctive expansion of her desperate arms to catch 
 the lost one in a last embrace. Inwardly she 
 murmurs, * Give him back to me as he was, and 
 take your own away. But you cannot ! Neither, 
 then, will I spare this. Mine died in your service, 
 yours shall now, be mine.' 
 
 Yet the true mother's heart wrestles still with 
 the guilty purpose. Every roll of the wheels that 
 takes the hearse farther away seems to appeal to her 
 to stop them. She almost feels as though she could, 
 even now, give up her coveted prize in return for 
 the right to claim her own [pale darling, and to 
 weep over him in all the unrestrained luxury of 
 her grief. For the moment she seemed to have no 
 child, living or dead, that was her own.
 
 94 GUT WATERMAN. 
 
 And now Mr. Dalrymple's carriage comes. Ay, 
 there he is, leaning back, with his noble head just 
 beginning to turn prematurely grey, and still with 
 the same stately bearing that always distinguishes 
 his well-formed and imposing person. Phoebe looks 
 on him, and instinctively tightens her grasp of the 
 child. And yet she wants to go down to him, to 
 throw herself on her knees before him, confess her 
 purpose, and beg his forgiveness. But, even while 
 that impulse is upon her, she sees the array of 
 vehicles following, and she recognizes first one and 
 then another as belonging to the grandest families 
 of the neighbourhood, and she asks herself bit- 
 terly — 
 
 ' Must I tell the story to them, too ? Must I 
 watch them as they begin to discover they have 
 been deceived, and made — as perhaps they may 
 think — ridiculous? Must I see the procession 
 suddenly broken up in disgust and disorder, and 
 hear all these fine gentlefolks, while they tell the 
 drivers to hurry off as fast as they can go, lavish 
 their contempt upon me and on my dead babe ? 
 The churchyard will be too good for my boy then,
 
 OF THE T^O KOADS — WHICH? 95 
 
 and the stocks too good for me. No, no — go on ; 
 I will keep my own counsel.' 
 
 ' Well, in general, it's the wisest plan, Mrs. 
 Waterman,' said a voice in Phoebe's ear. 
 
 Trembling with alarm and anger Phoebe turned. 
 
 ' Oh, Mrs. Beck, is it you ? How you frightened 
 me!' 
 
 * Did I ? ' and there was a quiet laugh. ' Well ; 
 and so you've got back just in time to see the 
 funeral ? ' 
 
 ' Yes,' responded Phoebe, turning away her eyes 
 from the searching look of Mrs. Beck, and saying 
 no more. 
 
 ' And how are you ; and how is your boy ? I 
 see you've got him there safe.' 
 
 * Oh, he's quite well, thank ye,' said Phoebe. 
 And as she spoke thus, she was conscious that if 
 she said no more her last chance of safety in avowal 
 of the truth was gone. She looked at Mrs. Beck, 
 and Mrs. Beck looked at her, and a sort of proud, 
 defiant courage seemed to keep Phoebe to her 
 purpose. She was silent. 
 
 Yes, Phoebe saw the crisis, accepted it, and was
 
 96 GUT WATERMAN. 
 
 silent. The babe thenceforward was to be hers 
 beyond question or remedy. She was committed 
 at last. To give him up now would be, not only 
 to lose him, but to make herself infamous in all 
 eyes as the woman who had tried to rob a father 
 of his only child ; and at a time, too, when he 
 demanded all possible sympathy and support.
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 SUSAN BECK AND HER LITTLE DAUGHTER. 
 
 The woman whose unexpected presence so startled 
 Phcebe was about forty years of age, of a composed, 
 not to say reserved, countenance, and with a curi- 
 ously-bright and inquisitive-looking eye. She had 
 good features, and might have been a comely 
 woman but that her face was spoiled by two things 
 — a long sharp tooth projecting over her bottom 
 lip, and a complexion of almost deathly whiteness, 
 which was not reheved by any kind of colour in 
 her hair or dress. That hair of Susan's was a 
 kind of pale drab; and her dresses were generally 
 much the same, for as the gossips of Branhape 
 said, * Susan railly did wash 'em and turn 'em, 
 and turn 'em and wash 'em_, till there wasn't a 
 rag left to throw at a beggar.' 
 
 But for the strange grey eye you might have 
 
 VOL. I. H
 
 98 GUY WATERMAN. 
 
 supposed her one of that large class of women who 
 are, as the poet says, without character ; but meet- 
 ing the gaze of that penetrating yet impenetrable 
 grey eye, you could not draw any such conclusion, 
 even though you found it impossible to guess what 
 kind of character lay behind it. And as with her 
 face so with her history. Up to the years of 
 womanhood no one ever spoke of Susan as exhi- 
 biting any quality at all remarkable, unless, in- 
 deed, it were that her very noiseless way of moving 
 through life itself called forth at times a comment. 
 Thus, when a gossip once remarked to a circle of 
 tea-drinkers, who were discussing Susan with all 
 the freedom and zest peculiar to such occasions, 
 that, for her part, all she should say was — that 
 * still waters run deep ' — there was a wonderful 
 concurrence of opinion as to the happy hit made 
 by the speaker. But there came a time when the 
 gossips found a still more piquant theme for talk. 
 A rumour got abroad — the truth of which no one 
 could either affirm or contradict — of a proceeding 
 upon Susan's part that aroused in the highest de- 
 gree the curiosity and interest of the neighbour-
 
 SUSAN BECK AND HER LITTLE DAUGHTER. 99 
 
 hood. It began to be whispered about that Susan, 
 who had a lover, a young farmer in the neigh- 
 bourhood, had suddenly found the gfentleman less 
 anxious about the marriage ceremony than was 
 desirable alike for Susan's sake and for the general 
 moral repute of the place. But Susan, it seems, 
 was not the woman to let a commonplace story of 
 seduction end also in a commonplace marriage of 
 the seducer with somebody else, as the young far- 
 mer had proposed; hoping, perhaps, thus to teach 
 Susan she had better hold her tongue and trouble 
 him no more. But one evening, so the story went 
 (for no one was able to state with certainty how 
 much was true or how much false), when the wander- 
 ing lover was sitting closely over his winter-evening 
 fire and arranging with his mother all the details 
 of his intended marriage with Susan's rival, there 
 came a knock at the door, which the farmer himself 
 answered, and found himself face to face with the 
 deserted fair one. What happened in the long 
 interview between the two, or in that which subse- 
 quently took place between them and the mother, 
 
 no one pretends to know ; but this is certain, Susan 
 
 h2
 
 100 GUY WATERMAN. 
 
 never again quitted the farm till she went forth to 
 be married some weeks later, and to return as 
 mistress of the place. 
 
 But, though Susan thus triumphed over all op- 
 position and cleared her good name from reproach, 
 she never showed the least sign of triumph or change 
 in her demeanour, which remained as qniet anil 
 secretive as ever. The general belief was that 
 she had frightened the farmer out of his wits during 
 that long talk at the door ; but as he would never 
 say anything, and as Susan herself offered no ex- 
 planations, the village gossips were brought to a 
 standstill, and so the affair ended by a general 
 acquiescence in the conclusion that Susan was 
 *oncommon clever,' and with many a laugh at 
 the hapless husband's expense. As for him, 
 poor fellow, he never was again the same man 
 as before ! Things went badly. The form failed, 
 and he would have sunk into destitution but 
 for Susans inventive industry. Nobody cared to 
 say — for no one was able to think — that Susan 
 proved herself exactly a good wife ; but it is cer- 
 tain she kept their home comfortable until th-
 
 SUSAN BECK AND HER LITTLE DAUGHTER. 101 
 
 husband's death, and then slie buried him hand- 
 somely. 
 
 And how did she accomplish all this ? Why that, 
 again, was a puzzling question for the cottagers' 
 wives to answer, though not really a difficult one. 
 Susan was, in fact, so clever as to be always in 
 request. If a housekeeper or a lady's-maid in the 
 neighbourhood wanted a holiday, or ran off suddenly, 
 or died, Susan Beck was sure to be sent for to fill 
 the vacant place for the time. If a grand feast 
 were given Susan's services were always in requisi- 
 tion ; she could assist the cook with the choicest 
 pastry, run through the rooms and plan and execute 
 alterations and additional accommodations with the 
 housekeeper, go off to the neighbouring town to 
 execute delicate commissions in costume for the 
 mistress, or sit down with the young ladies, and 
 their maid if they had one, to prepare new dresses 
 in some incredibly short space of time. But even 
 these numerous avocations do not include Susan 
 Beck's most profitable way of employing her time 
 and talent. She was perfectly invaluable as a nurse 
 when additions were being made to some one or
 
 102 
 
 GUY WATERMAN. 
 
 other of the genteel families in the neighbourhood, 
 and Susan would only attend to such customers. 
 So, again, if a rich old lady dropping into the last 
 stage of imbecility wanted to be nursed for a few 
 weeks quietly into the grave, Susan was the very 
 woman for the work. She was so patient and care- 
 ful, and always so very * clever.' She came into a 
 legacy of 20/. a year in * grateful remembrance,' 
 says the will, ' of her care of the Dowager Lady 
 Tholmondeley,' for a month or two thus profitably 
 spent. 
 
 Yet, though thus made use of, and enjoying a 
 certain amount of deference that looked like re- 
 spect, Susan Beck had no friend, no associate, with 
 the single exception of Phoebe Waterman. The 
 tie between the two women arose thus : Susan was 
 a capital listener, and Phoebe loved to talk. And 
 if, through this qualification, Susan got at a great 
 many secrets, people became accustomed to tlie 
 fact and did not mind it, for Susan always kept 
 her discoveries to herself. On the other hand, 
 Phoebe, who since her marriage had had a strange 
 hankering after children, and had not given birth
 
 SUSAN BECK AND HER LITTLE DAUGHTER. 108 
 
 to any of her own until recently, used to nurse and 
 fondle Mrs. Beck's only child, Susanna ; and, what 
 was of great importance to Susan, whenever the 
 latter wanted to be away from home for a few 
 weeks, Phoebe was always glad to have Susanna 
 left in her custody. Whatever vices Phoebe might 
 have, she was not mercenary. Mrs. Beck found 
 this kind of intimacy so convenient, that she came 
 to live next door to Phoebe ; and thus the friend- 
 ship of the two women — if friendship it might be 
 called — grew into something like strength. 
 
 Such was Susan Beck, Phoebe's neighbour and 
 friend, the woman who broke thus unexpectedly 
 upon the latter in the midst of her secret and 
 agitating reflections, and who had heard her utter 
 the words, 'I will keep my own counsel.' 
 
 The two women sat for a time in silence, both 
 apparently engaged in looking after the procession 
 and dwelling on the thoughts naturally excited by 
 it. But, in truth, Phoebe was already trying to 
 remember the exact words she had used when over- 
 heard by Mrs. Beck, and planning how to explain
 
 104 GUY WATEKMAN. 
 
 them away. But she knew by experience it was of 
 little use to say anything to Susan that you wished 
 her to believe, unless palpable and accompanying 
 facts made belief of the statement unavoidable. 
 Besides, she had a queer habit of listening and 
 holding her tongue in answer. Whether she was 
 or was not convinced seemed to Susan a matter 
 of such indifference that you could scarcely expect 
 her to declare the result for the benefit or comfort 
 of other people. Phoebe, therefore, felt instinctively 
 that the best way in all difficult cases was to pay 
 Susan back in her own coin by silence on dan- 
 gerous themes. 
 
 ' What brought you here ? ' inquired Phoebe, as 
 she turned, with almost a martyr's courage, to face 
 Mrs. Beck's gaze. 
 
 *I might ask you the same question,' was the reply. 
 * Oh ! I didn't want anybody to see me and 
 make a fuss while the funeral was going on — that's 
 ' all. Besides, it's a dreadful thing, you know, to 
 have to meet the squire and tell him I saw the 
 last of his lady ; so I'm trying to get up a bit of 
 courage first.'
 
 SUSAN BECK AND HER LITTLE DAUGHTER. 105 
 
 ' Well, and I was at the old work — herb-gather- 
 ing,' said Mrs. Beck, taking some green leaves and 
 stems from a little bag-shaped basket of straw that 
 hung upon her arm. 
 
 Mrs. Beck was famous for her skill in the de- 
 coction of simples, as well as for the uses she put 
 them to. Wonderful cures were reported of which 
 she had been the author ; and, although none of 
 these were probably so well authenticated as to be 
 deemed deserving of study by the members of the 
 College of Physicians, two facts were quite clear — 
 Susan's patients were full of faith, and no one of 
 them had ever been known to come to any injury 
 through her medicines. Susan Beck was much too 
 clever a woman to risk anything of that kind. 
 
 When the last of the people who followed the 
 procession on foot had disappeared at the turn of 
 the road, Phoebe rose, saying — 
 
 ' Ah, well, I'm glad I got back in time to see 
 the end of my poor mistress's babe. You needn't 
 wonder, Susan, that I who suckled him from the 
 very hour of his birth should feel almost like a 
 mother to him.'
 
 106 
 
 GUY WATERMAN. 
 
 ' Ah, poor babe ! ' rejoined Susan, ' he was a fine 
 boy. But, bless me, how he had fallen away ! I 
 laid him out, and prepared his linen, and put him 
 in the coffin, and saw the last of his face before 
 they put on the lid. Would you believe it, I 
 shouldn't ha' knowed him, he'd got so thin and 
 altered like ? ' 
 
 ' Yes,' said Phoebe, not trusting herself to meet 
 Mrs. Beck's face ' he was very thin when he died.' 
 
 'How did he die?' 
 
 'I fancy of cold.' 
 
 'Through the exposure in travelling, I daresay?' 
 
 ' Yes,' said Phoebe. 
 
 And after this there was silence while they walked 
 on through the fields skirting the'road and gradually 
 descending towards the village. Susan was the 
 first to speak. 
 
 'It must have been a tiresome job for you. I 
 hope you're well paid.' 
 
 ' She gave me more than I expected.' 
 
 ' Ah, I like to serve such ladies, though 'tisn't 
 easy to put me in that position,' remarked Susan, 
 with a laugh.
 
 SUSAN BECK AND HER LITTLE DAUGHTER. 107 
 
 Phoebe thought to herself — 'She wants to know 
 now if I havn't got plenty of things — valuables — 
 out of the affair: she would.' But, as she said 
 nothing to Susan, the latter observed — 
 
 * Poor lady ! what a many things must ha' been 
 lost with her if no one was by to look after em^ — 
 pocket-book with bank-notes, jewels, watches — all 
 gone, I suppose?' 
 
 'Yes,' said Phoebe, with something like im- 
 patience, that might even have seemed to be dis- 
 gust, but that she kept herself under restraint. 
 
 By this time the two had reached a stile ; and, 
 crossing it, they were in the village, which appeared 
 to be empty of all but a few children. Some- 
 thing in the voice or manner of one of these 
 attracted Mrs. Beck, who called out at the top of 
 her voice, 
 
 * Susanna, come here directly.' 
 
 Susanna came, and w^as followed by a group of 
 other children, who w^ere pelting her till they saw 
 her mother, and who then contented themselves 
 with abuse. The child, getting behind her mother's 
 skirts, stood looking out at them mockingly, and
 
 108 GUY WATEKMAN. 
 
 with her right hand bent ready, like a kitten's paw, 
 to scratch, if she saw occasion. 
 
 She was very young, certainly not more than four 
 years old, but looked much older, in spite of her 
 beauty and excessive fairness of complexion. Her 
 cheeks were just touched with a pink tinge. Her 
 eyes were bright blue, and but for a certain slyness 
 might have been called attractive. Her hair was 
 so very light that in her eyebrows and eyelashes 
 colour seemed to disappear altogether, and to have 
 left them at once white and almost imperceptible. 
 She had thin lips, and you might have thought 
 them inexpressive if you saw them at rest, but 
 not when curled with scorn or puffed out with a 
 mocking defiance, as they now appear, while 
 she looks out on her late playmates from the 
 protection of her mother's dress. She wears a 
 snow-white frock, and has a black sash round her 
 waist. Her sleeves are also looped up with black 
 ribbon. 
 
 ' Do be quiet, and let the children alone ! ' ex- 
 claimed Mrs. Beck, giving her daughter a slight 
 shake, but with much the same kind of enjoyment
 
 SUSAN BECK AND HER LITTLE DAUGHTEE. 109 
 
 that most of us feel in repressing the vagaries of a 
 frolicsome kitten. 
 
 * What's the black sash and ribbon for ? ' asked 
 Phoebe, not that she really was at a loss to know, 
 but that some inner feeling made her wish to hear 
 the answer. 
 
 ' Oh ! for the heir of Branhape, of course,' re- 
 plied Susan, who rather prided herself on a sort of 
 backstair influence with the gentry. ' How would 
 it ha' looked for me to take no notice that has a 
 child of my own ! ' 
 
 Phcebe said nothing, but stooped down to kiss the 
 little creature, who first stood aloof and then coquet- 
 tishly sprung so violently upon her neck as to ren- 
 der it difficult for Phoebe to keep herself and the 
 babe from falling. 
 
 ' There, there ! ' exclaimed Phoebe, laughing, 
 'that'll do. Now, look hei'e. You must love my little 
 boy, and help me to nurse him. You will, won't ) ou?' 
 
 Susanna took a long look at the babe as Phcebe 
 remained crouched low on the ground, and then, 
 looking slily up at Phoebe and her mother, she 
 ^said, tossing her head,
 
 110 GUT WATEBMAN. 
 
 ' I shall make him love me ; ' and then ran off to 
 seek her late playmates. 
 
 The women laughed, and seemed greatly to enjoy 
 the joke. 
 
 * She's an odd girl,' presently said Phoebe. 
 
 * Isn't she now ? ' answered Susan, looking after 
 the child admiringly. And then, after a pause, she 
 continued — 
 
 * They tell me that they don't know what to do 
 with her at school. If one of the children gives her 
 a poke with the elbow, or slaps her, or anything of 
 that kind, she'll seem to take no notice of it at the 
 time, but a little after the mistress '11 hear a scream, 
 and, when all the hubbub's made clear, it'll turn 
 out that Miss Susanna has bent her head down to 
 the shoulder or arm of the one who has offended her 
 and took up a bit o' flesh in them little sharp teeth 
 of hers and bit it nearly through. Sometimes 
 it's her nails : I never see such a child with 
 her nails as Susy!' And Mrs. Beck laughed, as 
 if greatly relishing her daughter's precocious pecca- 
 dilloes. 
 
 'It would be funny though, wouldn't it,' she
 
 SUSAN BECK AND HER LITTLE DAUGHTER. Ill 
 
 added, 'if Susy keeps her word, and makes your 
 boy fall in love with her some day ? * 
 
 ' Very ! ' replied Phoebe ; but didn't seem to care 
 to carry the conversation any further ; and so they 
 reached home.
 
 CHAPTER XI. 
 
 PHOEBE waterman's HOME. 
 
 Branhape was looking very bright and busy, as it 
 always did look on a fine summer's morning. It was 
 very hot truly, but the brawny blacksmith ham- 
 mering away in a shower of sparks in his black shed 
 under the elms, and the workmen in Pringle's, the 
 carpenter's great yard, and the men who were cart- 
 ing clover in the meadows, all felt it would be 
 hotter by-and-by ; when half-an- hour's doze under 
 the park trees or in the cool sanded parlour of the 
 Dalrymple Arms would be even more acceptable 
 than now, and that there was no time for ^Vork 
 like the present 
 
 So the hammering and the sawing, and all the 
 usual sounds of labour, greeted Phnebe as she once 
 again stood at her own door. 
 
 It was a very small and humble-looking door ;
 
 PHCEBE waterman's HOME. 113 
 
 and the cottage was so low, that the window of 
 Phoebe's bed-room over the kitchen could almost 
 be reached from the village street. A neglected 
 vine had slid from its fastenings on the gabled roof, 
 with its single attic window, and lay curled in a 
 thick mass between Phobbe's bed-room window and 
 the door below, sending out long shoots in all 
 directions. 
 
 Phcebe put one aside with an impatient exclamation 
 which sounded to Mrs. Beck very like ' laziness ! ' and 
 then Hfting the latch she went in, followed by Susan. 
 The door opened into a room which served them 
 as parlour and kitchen, and which had another door 
 (now standing open), that led into a good-sized 
 piece of garden, crammed with flowers, vegetables, 
 and fruit trees, but utterly Heglected ; and the 
 sight of it called forth another impatient exclam- 
 ation from Phoebe. 
 
 The room they were in was long and low, and 
 when the garden door was shut, was lighted only by 
 a miserable little latticed window, which Stephen 
 Waterman darkened by obstinately keeping on its 
 sill a gigantic fan-shaped geranium that had been 
 
 VOL. I. I
 
 114 GUT WATERMAN. 
 
 bequeathed to him by his father when he died, and 
 which Stephen treasured as a precious heirloom. 
 
 Somehow, in spite of all the attempts at smart- 
 ness Phoebe had made in it, the room would, as she 
 said, look ' poverty struck.' Yet it contained better 
 things than most of the cottages at Branhape. 
 There was one of the brightest little oaken corner 
 cupboards in the world, with glass doors revealing 
 the gayest crockery ; and there was an oaken settle 
 and drawers, all of Stephen's own workmanship. 
 
 The m.eadow-sweet and dog-roses which Phoebe 
 had placed in a jar in the empty grate, just before 
 she got Mrs. Dalrymple's letter, were dead ; and 
 the little boxwood crucifix hanging over the mantel- 
 piece was covered with dust. So was the swing 
 bookshelf, containing some books of poetry and 
 plays which Mrs. Dalrymple had given to Phoebe, 
 and Stephen's great Bible, an ancestral gift like the 
 geranium. 
 
 Of the other three rooms, one was Phoebe's bed- 
 room, a second a kind of store-place on the same 
 landing, in which generally stood a sack of potatoes, 
 a wooden tray of apples, bunches of dried herbs,
 
 PHffiBE waterman's HOME. 115 
 
 and little pet logs of wood which Phoebe kept 
 there that she might have one always ready for her 
 fire when she wanted it without having to beg and 
 pray Stephen, * who made such a fuss about his 
 wood.' The third room was in the roof — a long 
 sloping room, with rickety boards, and low splintery 
 beams to knock your head against everywhere you 
 turned. It had no furniture except a couple of 
 tables maimed in the legs, and a few broken-backed 
 chairs. Yet this was the room in which, in after- 
 years, the dream was dreamt, and the plan matured, 
 which was to bring upon that little child at Phoebe's 
 breast the great misery of his life. 
 
 Phoebe called up the narrow staircase — 
 
 * Stephen ! Stephen ! ' Receiving no answer, she 
 went to the door and looked across the sweetbriar 
 hedge at the bottom of the garden, where at some 
 distance in the field stood Stephen's workship. 
 
 *I suppose he's there muddling,' she said to 
 Susan; 'I'll go across the field to him.' 
 
 * But you're tired, sure, give me the boy till you 
 come back.' 
 
 * yes I ' sighed Phoebe, as though she then first. 
 
 i2
 
 116 GUY WATERMAN. 
 
 felt how truly fatigued she was, ' I shall be so glad 
 to be relieved of him/ But she had scarcely set 
 him on Susan's knee when she flushed and snatched 
 him up again, saying hastily, 
 
 * No, I'll take him with me/ 
 
 * Just as you like,' coldly replied Susan. 
 
 Again the eyes met, but Phcebe was prepared, 
 and so, with a half-laugh, she remarked, 
 
 ' What d'ye think Stephen 'd say to me if I came 
 . back without his boy ? ' 
 
 Susan heard, and looked so impressed with the 
 truth, that Phoebe began to discover a new and 
 unintended meaning in her words. She, however, 
 quietly added — 
 
 ' I wish, Susan, you'd stay with us to-day, and get 
 us up a nice bit of supper. I shall want some- 
 thing after seeing the squire ; and I hope we may 
 enjoy ourselves then, all together.' 
 
 Susan showed as' much pleasure at this idea as 
 she ever did show at anything ; and Phoebe, glad to 
 have made so successful a diversion, hurried off 
 with the infant towards the workshop, murmuring 
 inly to herself.
 
 PHCEBE waterman's HOME. 117 
 
 * What did she want with him ? I'm certain, 
 by the look of her eye, she had something in view. 
 Perhaps to strip him and look over his body. Does 
 she know of any mark, I wonder, that can have 
 escaped me ? Not very likely, I think.' So rumi- 
 nated Phcebe, and evidently was altogether put 
 terribly out of sorts by this inconvenient proximity 
 of her friend. Suddenly she stopped, with an ex- 
 clamation — 
 
 * My God ! I do not feel the package. Oh, 
 what a fool I am ! Here it is, safe enough. I 
 must dispose of it somewhere to-night.' 
 
 The package was that which had been entrusted 
 to Phoebe by Mrs. Dalrymple when they parted on 
 the deck of the ' Black Gull,' the unfortunate wife's 
 last gift to her husband. 
 
 Phcebe did not go by the little footpath that went 
 curving from the sweetbriar hedge to the workship, 
 but went straight across, leaving a trail behind her 
 in the long grass, sunny with buttercups and red 
 with sorrel ; and Susan Beck stood at the garden 
 door watching her. 
 
 Stephen's workshop had been built by himself, and
 
 118 
 
 GUY WATERMAN. 
 
 was the only thing he had ever attempted in the build- 
 ing line that had turned out a credit to him. It was 
 a low three-cornered kind of shed, fitted rudely to 
 the shape of the natural rock foundation, with a wide 
 heavy-framed window, a thatched roof, and a well- 
 tarred door. Not a very fine building to look at, 
 but one which was reported by certain blackguards 
 of Branhape, who perhaps had good reasons for 
 knowing, to be of marvellous strength ; and when 
 such reports reached Stephen, he winked and looked 
 very wise, and ' rather believed it was strong ; he'd 
 like to see a thicker wall in twelve parishes round ; it 
 was rough, but he rather did believe it was strong.' 
 
 It was rough ; inside it was particularly rough. 
 All over the walls stuck out bits of wood and brick, 
 which Stephen had used to fill up apertures left by 
 his defective building. One part of it was white- 
 washed, one part was tarred, and the other parts 
 were left for further consideration. 
 
 The sunshine was full upon it as Phoebe stood at 
 the door. 
 
 Stephen was there in his apron and brown-paper 
 cap * muddling,' as Phcebe said, over a gigantic tea-
 
 PHCEBE WATEKMAn's HOME. 119 
 
 caddy of a most quaint and curious design ; his 
 unfailing resource when out of work, and therefore 
 Phcebe detested the sight of it. 
 
 * Poor fellow, he looks as if he hadn't got his 
 meals regular since I have been gone,' thought 
 Phcebe ; and certainly, poor Stephen did not look as 
 if his bodily welfare had been much attended to, for 
 his face was very thin and woe-begone For the rest 
 he was a narrow-shouldered small man, with small 
 head and slow, thoughtful, but not intelligent eyes. 
 
 Those eyes were now gazing down at the tea- 
 caddy in some perplexity ; and Stephen was lifting 
 his paper cap a little on one side while giving his 
 head a gentle contemplative scratch, when Phoebe 
 slid silently in and dealt him a rousing slap on the 
 back, which made him shout with alarm. But when 
 he saw who it was, and heard her riotous mirth, for 
 somehow Phoebe had either regained her old spirits 
 or manufactured some new ones to a very respect- 
 able semblance of them, he, too, began to laugh, as 
 he exclaimed — 
 
 ' Is it really you ? ' 
 
 ' Ay, old man, it's me. Ain't you going to give
 
 120 TxUY WATERMAN. 
 
 me a kiss after all this time ? Perhaps you wish it 
 was me who had been drowned and our little boy 
 who had died ? ' 
 
 Stephen did kiss his wife, but not until he had 
 first kissed the baby and taken a long look at him. 
 
 ' Why, bless me, Phoebe, I don't think voyaging 
 has done him any good. He don't look a bit like 
 the same/ 
 
 * Do I look the same, I wonder ? ' 
 
 * Well, now you ask me, I must say you don't. 
 But no wonder. Ugh ! you've had a hardish time 
 on it, I suppose ? 'Tain't easy work waiting on the 
 gentlefolk. Well, I bin a fidgetin' about you both 
 above a bit. Phoebe, lass, if aught had befell you 
 or the boy it 'ud a gone hard with me, God knows 
 it would.' 
 
 Phoebe couldn't answer that, Stephen spoke 
 feelingly, and the woman's heart was touched. A 
 tear stole down her cheek. 
 
 ' How was it you didn't go to the funeral ? ' asked 
 Phoebe. 
 
 *0h, I was busy. Besides, what's the use of 
 making such a fuss about a baby of that age ? '
 
 PH(EBE WATEEMAn's HOME. 121 
 
 * Oh ! don't say that ; don't, Stephen ; it's wicked. 
 Think if it were your own.' Phoebe spoke with ter- 
 rible earnestness. 
 
 ' Ah, well, I didn't think much about the matter, 
 I suppose. No, I shouldn't like it to ha' bin our 
 little chap,' added Stephen, looking fondly on the 
 boy, who gazed up in his face with eyes of wonder 
 that seemed to keep growing larger and larger. 
 
 ' Here, take the boy,' said she. 
 
 Stephen did so, and perhaps a little awkwardly, 
 as having got out of practice for the last two or 
 three weeks, so the child began to cry. Phoebe 
 tried to sooth it while rummaging in her pockets. 
 Presently she took out a purse and gave it to 
 Stephen. 
 
 * There,' said she, * you'll find I have not lost my 
 time.' 
 
 * How much ? ' inquired Stephen. 
 
 'Why, there's a deal altogether, but part of it 
 don't exactly belong to me. She gave me twenty 
 pounds, and the rest of the hundred was to be put 
 by for this little rogue's better bringing up.' 
 
 Stephen really loved his boy, but somehow felt a
 
 122 GUY WATERMAN. 
 
 great increase of affection just then for the child in 
 spite of his persistent cries. He was ever haunted 
 by a sense of future poverty. He could bear well 
 enough any difficulty while he was actually face to 
 face with it, but lived always in a nervous dread of 
 the to-morrow. What would become of his wife 
 and child if he were to fall ill, or if he were to find 
 work still harder to get, or if he could make no 
 provision for old age ? These, were the fears that 
 took the manliness out of Stephen Waterman on so 
 many occasions, in spite of his other good qualities, 
 such as his dogged industry and his love of home. 
 
 The sight of the purse therefore greatly moved 
 him. * Well,' said he, ' when I look again at him I 
 do think he's improved.' 
 
 Cries of ' Mrs. Waterman ! Mrs. Waterman ! ' 
 now interrupted them, and Phoebe went out to see 
 who it was. Susan stood there half-way between 
 the village and the workshop. As soon as she saw 
 them she called out, ' Here's a man from the squire 
 waiting for you with a carriage ! He knows you 
 are at home, and wants you to go to him directly at 
 the Hall.'
 
 PHCEBE waterman's HOME. 123 
 
 'Ay,' thought Phoebe to herself, 'now comes 
 my hardest trial. Coming, Susan ! say I'm coming 
 directly.' 
 
 Susan Beck went back to the house, and Phcebe 
 returned to the shed for the child. Having told her 
 husband of the message, she said — • 
 
 ' Now, Stephen, you just run and put that money 
 away where no one can by any chance get to see it, 
 while I follow with the boy. Mind Mrs. Beck's eyes/ 
 
 Stephen, accustomed to obedience, and quite con- 
 vinced of the prudence of the suggestion, went off 
 to the house. He had scarcely got outside the shed 
 before Phcebe hurriedly drew Mrs. Dalrymple's 
 packet from her pocket, saying — 
 
 ' I must hide this somewhere till night. Not for 
 worlds could I go into his presence with this about 
 me.' 
 
 She looked round, and put it first in one place, 
 then another, and appeared still dissatisfied. 
 
 ' Oh, it's useless troubling now. If I can but 
 keep it safe till night, I'll come again when every- 
 body's abed. Under the shavings, where he can't 
 easily get at it by any accident? Yes, that will do.'
 
 124 
 
 GUY WATERMAN. 
 
 Stooping on the floor, and stretching her arm to 
 its utmost reach under Stephen's heavy and solid 
 bench, which left only a few inches of space between 
 itself and the ground, she pushed it so far that she 
 could at last only touch it with her finger-tips. 
 Another minute and she had snatched up the child 
 from a bed of shavings, locked the door, and was 
 fast moving over the field towards the house in 
 front of which waited Mr. Dalrymple's messenger.
 
 CHAPTER XII. 
 
 HOW GUY OBTAINED HIS NAME. 
 
 Many of the neighbours had by this time returned 
 from seeing the funeral, and began to collect about 
 Phoebe's cottage, when they observed the carriage 
 at the door, and to relate to one another the news 
 that Phoebe had returned. 
 
 She, however, hardly noticed them, but got into 
 the carriage with her child, forgetting even the 
 presence of Susan Beck, and saying nothing to 
 her husband in answer as he observed to her, 
 
 * Make haste back, and we'll have a nice supper 
 ready for you.' 
 
 She was now absorbed in the thought of meeting 
 Mr. Dalr^mple, and fortifying herself with the reflec- 
 tion it would soon be over and all her difficulties 
 ended. 
 
 Rapidly the carriage whirled along. Phoebe
 
 126 GUY WATERMAN. 
 
 looked out from time to time, but felt as though she 
 saw nothing. Her tongue grew dry, her lips hot, 
 and at times she fancied she would be unable to 
 speak without some guilty display. They passed the 
 lodge where she had seen the funeral procession, 
 passed the little bridge over the brook, came to the 
 other and principal lodge, went winding about among 
 the thick plantations and along the exquisitely white 
 and smooth gravel road, came to another and mag- 
 nificent stone bridge across the broad, ornamental 
 water, where a couple of swans were saiHng lovingly 
 along, turning their heads and necks so prettily to- 
 wards each other that even Phoebe was struck by the 
 grace and sweetness of their gestures, and thought of 
 the babes she had so lately nursed together, and then 
 in another minute she was on the broad terrace be- 
 fore the entrance-porch of Branhape Hall — a fine 
 old Elizabethan pile, with an immense stretch of 
 glass all over its front, as if the entire facade were 
 but in a sense one magnificent window, that lighted 
 the whole interior. 
 
 A servant who had been watching the arrival let 
 down the steps, and handed Phoebe out, and saying,
 
 HOW GUY OBTAINED HIS NAIVIE. 127 
 
 * This way,' led her through the little vestibule 
 across the magnificent hall, with antique suits 
 of armour against the walls, to a small room 
 occasionally occupied by Mr. Dalrymple as a pri- 
 vate study when he was wearied of the state and 
 elaborateness of preparation that characterized the 
 superb library. 
 
 The room was empty when she entered it, at least 
 to anyone but Phoebe it would have seemed so, but 
 she could scarcely repress an exclamation when she 
 found herself face to face with her kind, confidinsr, 
 and unfortunate mistress. It so happened that 
 Phcebe had never been in this room, never seen this 
 picture : which, indeed, was not to be wondered at, 
 for it had been only painted when the talk first arose 
 about Mrs. Dalrymple going abroad, and had only 
 arrived at the Hall since the departure of the 
 original. 
 
 The likeness was only too good for Phcebe ; she 
 stood spell-bound before it ; and, as she gazed upon 
 the exceedingly sweet, yet sad and tender face, a 
 reproach seemed to be gathering in the eyes, and 
 upon the almost moving lips, that Phoebe felt was
 
 128 GUT WATERMAN. 
 
 almost maddening her. The babe, too, attracted 
 perhaps by a glitter on the corner of the massive 
 gold frame, gave a sudden smile and stretched out 
 its tiny hands, and for a moment Phoebe felt over- 
 powered with what seemed a general conspiracy of 
 natural things against her. But a new thought drove 
 off this. She began to feel almost angry with the 
 child, and to caress it in a kind of demanding spirit 
 and manner, as though she said, 
 
 ' You shall love me ; you shall ! I have paid 
 dearly for you, and will not let you go.' 
 
 Then, resolutely turning her back on the portrait, 
 she sat down to wait for Mr. Dalrymple's coming, 
 who did not keep her long in suspense, but almost 
 immediately entered the room. 
 
 Mr. Dalrymple was, as we have intimated, a man 
 of noble presence, though the effect was impaired by 
 a certain stoop of the shoulders. He looked about 
 sixty. Phoebe was instantly struck by the great 
 change in him since she had been away. He 
 stooped more than she had ever known him to do 
 before ; there was a certain indecision in his step and 
 gait and eye quite foreign to his vigorous but serene
 
 HOW GUY OBTAINED HIS NAME. 129 
 
 nature ; and the face, once so cheerful and full of 
 genial pleasantry, seemed to be darkened by long 
 years of gloom. 
 
 ^ Sit down, sit down,' he said, as Phoebe rose and 
 curtsied on his entrance. ' It was a thoughtless 
 thing of them to bring you here ; ' and he half looked 
 towards the picture. It was characteristic of him 
 that he did not say, ' to bring me here ; ' though, no 
 doubt, he felt the mistake more than he could sup- 
 pose Phoebe would. 
 
 * Perhaps, sir, you would like us to go to another 
 room ? ' inquired Phoebe, and moved towards the 
 door, without waiting for his answer. 
 
 * No, no ! sit down. In one word, Phoebe, do you 
 know anything about — ' The deep voice trembled 
 and died. 
 
 Phoebe sighed heavily as she answered, ' Yes, sir.' 
 ' Speak, then, and fear not, for I have no hope.' 
 Moistening her dry lips, and managing to get her 
 face into shade, and only venturing now and then to 
 look at Mr. Dalrymple, Phoebe tried to speak, but 
 her tongue refused her utterance, and she began to 
 tremble with affright lest she had overrated her own 
 
 VOL. I. K
 
 130 GUY WATERMAN. 
 
 strength to take her safely through the terrible 
 ordeal. But again her fertile ingenuity saved her. 
 She remembered Mrs. Dalrymple's letter, the one 
 which led to her departure. She took it from her 
 pocket and handed it in breathless silence. 
 
 He read it ; and she could see the paper quivering 
 as he held it up so as partly to shield his face from 
 Phoebe's eye as he made himself master of the con- 
 tents. There was a long pause when he had done. 
 Then he said, 
 
 'Yes; I cannot blame you, after reading this. 
 Well?' 
 
 Phoebe again essayed to speak, and though her 
 first accents came falteringly, and were every now 
 and then interrupted by tears and sobs, which were 
 true in themselves, but which Phoebe's instinctive 
 cunning rather encouraged than kept down, she 
 began to tell him how she had gone, as requested, to 
 Plymouth, taking with her a woman — 
 
 ' Does she live ? ' 
 
 ' No, sir.' 
 
 — Taking with her a woman to nurse her own 
 (Phoebe's) boy ; bow she had met Mrs. Dalryraple at
 
 HOW GUY OBTAINED HIS NAME. 131 
 
 Plymouth — how they had gone on board the ' Black 
 Gull ' — been becalmed so many days — 
 
 * Oh, I might have saved her, then, had I gone 
 after her, as I at first mtended ! Well, well, well ! ' 
 He bent his head in anguish, but Phoebe went on — 
 
 — How the child had begun to sicken on board 
 ship, and at last died, as they all believed, of fever 
 tiirough cold — 
 
 'Through exposure, no doubt. God help me ! — 
 that anyone should have thought to take a babe of a 
 month old on such an expedition ! Well ? ' 
 
 — How Mr. Pample had interrupted them just 
 when they were about to bury the child — 
 
 ' Yes, I know ; go on.' 
 
 — How after that Phoebe had wished to get home 
 with her boy ; how she had been put on board the 
 boat to go to the ' Marco Polo ; ' been wrecked and 
 saved ; and how, next day, she had seen the * Black 
 Gull ' drift in and break to pieces, and her mistress 
 disappear with the last portion of the hull that had 
 for a time remained on the rocli. 
 
 Mr. Dalrymple listened in silence to all these 
 
 cruel details, his elbows at first resting upon the 
 
 k2
 
 132 GUY WATEE3IAN. 
 
 table, and his upright arms supporting his head, 
 as he looked now at Phoebe, now at the floor ; 
 but gradually the arms dropped, and the head 
 bowed down, and the strong man gave way, 
 even audibly, to a grief such as he had never 
 known before, and such as Phoebe had not even 
 dreamed of. 
 
 From time to time, as she gazed on him, she felt 
 as though some one knocked upon her breast, and 
 cried loudly to her, * Can you bear this ? Will you 
 not yet shed a ray of light and hope upon this deso- 
 late head ? Will you, can you rob this father of his 
 child ; this family, whose line and history have be- 
 come entwined with the dearest interest and associa- 
 tions of the neighbourhood, of its natural heir ? ' 
 But then she had now a resource. Perhaps she was 
 not conscious of it as a resource ; but it was one, and 
 she made use of it. The very reasons that made it 
 so terrible for her to keep the child made it still 
 more terrible for her to give him back and acknow- 
 ledge that she had been so infamous as to plot to 
 steal him away. Phoebe was able even to think 
 harshly of her own act, when thinking so strength-
 
 HOW GUY OBTAINED HIS NAME. 133 
 
 ened her purpose ; the idea that she could not undo 
 what she had done now settled all. 
 
 ' And did my wife never — did she ? ' — Mr. Dal- 
 rymple seemed to find it impossible to put his ques- 
 tion into words, but Phoebe understood him well 
 enough. She had good reasons for understanding, 
 for this was the question she had always most 
 dreaded. 
 
 * O yes, she did indeed, sir. She repented bitterly 
 of the whole affair, and would have sent the child 
 back with me — if it had lived.' 
 
 * Mrs. Dalrymple said this ? ' 
 
 * Oh, she did indeed and indeed, sir ; and she cried 
 as she said it, and she meant to have written to you.' 
 
 * But you have no letter ? ' 
 
 * No, sir.' 
 
 ' Nor anything from her ? Nothing saved ? ' 
 
 * Nothing but her purse, which she gave me with 
 a hundred pounds in it — twenty for going with lier, 
 and the rest she wished me to put by for my boy's 
 education.' 
 
 ' Could you spare that purse to me ? ' 
 
 ' Oh, sir, I will send it up to you to-night. I have
 
 134 
 
 GUY WATEEMAN. 
 
 given it to my husband in order to put the money 
 safely away.' 
 
 There was another pause, during which Mr. Dal- 
 rymple seemed to be quietly mastering his agitation. 
 At last he came close to Phoebe, and said, 
 
 ' And your boy — is he well and safe ? ' Again 
 the bitter expression passed over the father's face as 
 he thought of his own child. 
 
 ' Yes, sir,' replied Phoebe ; and she opened her 
 shawl and laid the babe across her knees to let Mr. 
 Dalrymple look at him. 
 
 As it had so happened that the father had not seen 
 the boy many times since his birth — only, indeed, when 
 he had ridden over from time to time to Phoebe's 
 house to satisfy himself and wife that the babe was 
 thriving — it was no wonder he could not now recog- 
 nize him, though it was his own flesh and blood that 
 lay there before him, in all the sweet sleep of in- 
 fancy. And yet a something seemed to be stirring 
 unconsciously in his heart, for once he looked from 
 the babe's face to that of Mrs. Dalrymple's portrait, 
 as though a subtle link of association had been 
 awakened ; but, whatever it might be, he thought no
 
 HOW GUY OBTAINED HIS NAME. 13 
 
 more of it, nor suspected for an instant it was other 
 than Phoebe Waterman's child he gazed upon. 
 
 * I suppose,' he said, touching with his finger the 
 closed baby's fist,which immediately opened, received, 
 and held the finger fast, * I suppose ray wife was 
 attached to this little fellow ? ' 
 
 * O yes ; she said once she loved it almost as if it 
 were her own. You see, sir,' added Phoebe hastily, 
 as though fearing he might be offended at the fami- 
 liarity it implied, ^ she knew how much T loved her 
 child.' 
 
 * And what is his name ? ' asked Mr. Dalrymple. 
 ' tie's not christened yet, sir.' 
 
 ^ Would you like me to be his godfather ? ' 
 Phoebe's face brightened as with a sudden flash ; 
 her colour rose ; but she felt so overpowered that she 
 could only say, as she curtsied, ' Oh, sir ! ' 
 
 * And may I give him his name ? ' 
 Phoebe's face again answered for her. 
 
 * Well, call him Guy ; it is an old and favourite 
 name with us. I meant my own to have borne it ; 
 but, as it is, our line will now end with me, and we 
 shall never again have any use for it.*
 
 136 GUY WATERMAN. 
 
 So saying he stooped and kissed the baby while 
 extricating his finger from the chubby fist ; and then 
 he took from his neck a chain and watch, both of 
 gold, and costly, and hung the chain round the 
 child's neck, and said, 
 
 ' Take care of that for him — it is his godfather's 
 gift. Train him well. Make him an honest and 
 industrious man, and while I live he and you may 
 always look for a friend in me.* 
 
 He then poured out some wine, made Phoebe 
 drink, saw her with courtly grace to the door, 
 ordered the servant to have her driven back, and 
 then returned to a terrible communion with that 
 picture, and all the grief and disappointment, and 
 occasional bitterness and tender and passionate affec- 
 tion, it called forth.
 
 CHAPTER XIII. 
 
 AN INNOCENT IMPOSTOR LYING IN STATE. 
 
 While Phoebe retraced in the carriage the way 
 she had come, and took the watch and chain from 
 the child's neck and put them about her own, so 
 that she might carry them with greater safety, and 
 while she drew her shawl carefully over the gleam- 
 ing links, so that no casual eyes might see her 
 babe's treasure, she began to measure thoughtfully 
 the results of her late interview, and to draw from 
 it assurances of complete success. Still she had 
 much to do. She felt uneasy so long as the packet 
 lay under the bench in the workshop containing the 
 evidences of her deception; she wished its safety 
 had been better provided for ; and she did not feel 
 altogether satisfied that the workshop was the best 
 place of concealment available, even if she had 
 had time to dispose of it properly there. At times
 
 138 GUY WATERMAN. 
 
 she asked herself, ' Hadn't she better destroy the 
 packet ? ' But no ; Phoebe couldn't do that. Her 
 crime had reached its natural boundary, and she 
 had no temptation to go beyond. The love for 
 the child, unscrupulous and unlawful as it was, 
 still was love ; and it forbade any injury to his 
 future prospects that seemed to Phoebe at all avoid- 
 able. She did not even really shut out a vague 
 notion that, somehow or other, at some time or 
 other, the boy would regain his true position, and 
 all parties (herself included) be made comfortable. 
 It was this belief that modified to her own mind 
 the true character of her deed ; and she encouraged 
 the belief in order that she might be able to think 
 as well of herself and her motives as the circum- 
 stances admitted. Still she was uneasy whenever 
 she thought of the packet, and her hand kept 
 wandering towards the place where it had been 
 with a frequent sense of alarm at not finding it 
 there, for she had become accustomed to satisfy 
 herself of its safety between every pause in her 
 troubled fancies ; and often, indeed, when she was 
 herself unconscious of the gesture. No, she thought
 
 AN INNOCENT IMPOSTOR LYING IN STATE. 139 
 
 and said to herself, she could not enjoy the supper 
 and the chat with the neighbours till that packet 
 was safely stowed away where no earthly eye could 
 discover it. 
 
 And then she had another pressing desire at her 
 heart — namely, to visit the grave of her own true 
 child. She had half intended to ask Mr. Dal- 
 rymple's permission, but had been afraid that some- 
 thing in her voice or manner in making the request 
 might have suggested the dangerous question — 
 * Why should she care so much about my boy ? ' 
 Of course, she had replied to herself, as if replying 
 to him, ' Did I not nurse him — suckle him — was 
 not the very life in him part of my Hfe ? ' But 
 still she had judged it wiser to hold her tongue, and 
 had therefore quitted the Hall without saying any- 
 thing of her intention. 
 
 But Phcebe was a wilful personage in all matters 
 that she really did care about ; and she had vowed 
 to herself, while looking secretly on at the funeral, 
 that if she could not then assert her right to be a 
 mourner, she would yet manage to see her child's 
 last resting-place, and give vent to the natural grief
 
 140 GUY WATERMAN. 
 
 of a mother. But how? Tliat question she now 
 asked herself as the carriage rolled along, and she 
 was not long in finding an answer. Pulling the 
 check- string of the carriage, as soon as they had 
 passed from the park road into the high road, she 
 begged the driver to put her down, not at her own 
 house, but near the church and the place where the 
 sexton lived. She said to the man in explanation, 
 
 * I was just too late to-day to see the funeral and 
 to get to the church, but I ought, you know, to see 
 the place where they buried him. He died in my 
 arms.' 
 
 * I doubt if ye're in time,' was the man's answer. 
 ' The squire's vault is i' the chancel o' the church, 
 and they have allers to open the pavement to get 
 down to the spot. But maybe the sexton won't ha' 
 replaced the flagstones yet. And there he is ! Ay, 
 he's just going back from his house to the church. 
 He's been to his tea, most like ; Joshua likes his 
 tea. And for that matter, I don't suppose Joshua 
 ever missed a meal on account o' a funeral sin' he 
 came to the place. I often say to him he seems to 
 enjoy his food best at such times. Natural enough !
 
 AN INNOCENT IMPOSTOR LYING IN STATE. 141 
 
 It's his business. Of course a morsel eats sweeter 
 when one sees more comfortably than usual how it's 
 to be paid for. So I says, and sticks to it, Joshua's 
 right enough.' 
 
 Phoebe said nothing in answer, but got out quietly 
 as the vehicle stopped at the sexton's house, and 
 gave the man a crown piece, to his great surprise 
 and satisfaction, wdiich were indeed so apparent that 
 Phoebe thought it best to say, 
 
 * The squire's been so good and generous to me 
 that you needn't mind taking it.' 
 
 'Well, Mrs. Waterman, I'm sure I thank you 
 very kindly.' He touched his horses with the whip, 
 and away they went. 
 
 Phoebe stepped quickly into the cottage, and 
 found there the sexton's wife busily ironing her hus- 
 band's Sunday shirt, for he officiated as pew-opener 
 in the sacred edifice. She stared at Phoebe, who 
 looked wild and agitated, but welcomed her back, 
 and proffered her a seat. 
 
 ' No, thank ye, Mrs. Darkley, I came in to see if 
 you'd take care of my boy for a few minutes while 1 
 go into the church. I should like to see where
 
 142 GUY WATERMAN. 
 
 they've put the squire's baby. I only returned to- 
 day while the funeral was going on.' 
 
 * To be sure I will. But won't you have some- 
 thing ? I'll make you a fresh cup of tea in a minute, 
 and I've a nice hot cake in the oven, for I'm expect- 
 ing Susan Beck to tea presently — only my husband 
 wouldn't wait for her.' 
 
 * Susan Beck ? ' 
 
 ' Yes ; she sent a little boy just now to say she 
 should come up and have a little bit of gossip with 
 me this evening. She often does.' 
 
 Phoebe had half a mind to take the child out of 
 the cradle, where Mrs. Darkley had caused her to 
 deposit him, and risk even the carrying him up 
 and down the steps of the chancel vault; but then 
 she reflected that the doing so after what had already 
 occurred would be sure to make Susan believe there 
 was some mystery about the child which Phoebe did 
 not care to have investigated. Luckily, the boy was 
 asleep, so she said, 
 
 ' Don't let him be waked, for he'll scream himself 
 into fits if he misses me.' 
 
 ' No, no ; I'll take care.'
 
 AN INNOCENT IMPOSTOR LYING IN STATE. 143 
 
 Phoebe went out and hurried along the little path, 
 bordered by willows, that led from the sexton's 
 house to the church. It was an old, quaint, ivy- 
 covered edifice, parts of which were supposed to 
 have been built by a Norman — half soldier, half 
 priest — who had followed the fortunes of the Con- 
 queror, and found they led him to a very pleasant 
 manor in this neighbourhood, where he founded the 
 Dalrymple family, and built the first church. 
 
 Phoebe could not open either of the usual doors of 
 entrance, and when she knocked loudly she remained 
 unanswered from within. But she remembered a 
 doorway outside the rounded paxt of the church — 
 one seldom used — and she thought most likely the 
 sexton might have got that open during the funeral 
 for his own convenience. She knocked at the door 
 in question, and it was at once opened by the 
 sexton. 
 
 Joshua was a spare little man, v/ith apple-like 
 cheeks, hard, round, and rosy, and merry twinkling 
 eyes, that seemed to see fun (of rather a sepulchral 
 kind perhaps) in everything. At the sight of 
 Phoebe Waterman he made what he intended to
 
 144 GUY WATERMAN. 
 
 be a most graceful deprecatory movement with his 
 hand, as he glanced down at his musty, professional 
 clothes and clayey boots. 
 
 ' Tut, tut, who'd a thought o' seein' ladies this 
 time o' day. Well, and how are you, Mrs. Water- 
 man ? I heered as you'd got back — come to see the 
 corffins I suppose, eh ? ' 
 
 'Yes, Mr. Darkley, if you wouldn't mind the 
 trouble.' 
 
 Trouble ! Mr. Darkley's eyes twinkled, and 
 seemed to express that all reasonable duties that 
 came in his way were rather pleasant than other- 
 wise, only that, on the whole, he didn't see any oc- 
 casion for saying so. 
 
 'Where's your little chap? Brought him back 
 safe and sound ? ' 
 
 'Yes ; and he's asleep in your own cradle.* 
 Joshua's face clouded. Phoebe had thoughtlessly 
 raised a vision of the only funeral that Joshua had 
 not looked at with professional eyes — that of his own 
 and only child, a girl, for whom that cradle had 
 been bought — so he said with some asperity — 
 
 * Come ; you'll have to make haste, if you don't
 
 AN INNOCENT IMPOSTOR LYING IN STATE. 145 
 
 want to see the last flag turned back over the hole, 
 and then I shan't take it up for anybody.' 
 
 Phoebe passed through the little vestibule, and 
 through another door, and stood in the chancel. 
 
 The chancel of Branhape church was a fine pic- 
 ture, at once solemn and beautiful. Through the 
 painted windows a stream of coloured Ught was fall- 
 ing upon the graceful, slender pillars and arches 
 that extended all round the face of the wall, and gild- 
 ing the statues in the recesses, that called to mind 
 the more eminent members of the squire's family. 
 There was the cross-legged Crusader, lying recum- 
 bent in eternal rest after his life of feverish activity 
 in the cause of what he deemed religion. There 
 was the Judge, sitting as in the wonted state of his 
 tribunal, looking the very incarnation of passionless, 
 even-handed, even-souled justice. And there was the 
 charming figure of the maiden daughter of a last- 
 century Squire who had perished through a noble 
 act of devotedness. While lying one day on the 
 banks of the ornamental water she had noticed two 
 children come to the edge at a little distance, and 
 try to get at the water-lilies that grew on the surface, 
 
 VOL. I. L
 
 146 GUY WATEEMAN. 
 
 and which were then in full bloom. A minute more 
 and they were both struggling in the water. She 
 ran, got one out, and, though herself much ex- 
 hausted, again went to seek the other, who had sunk. 
 She plunged again and again, found the child, 
 brought it to land, saved its life, but lost her own, 
 having lived but a few days after. 
 
 Phoebe had heard this story before, but she did 
 not stop the sexton when he began to tell it to her 
 again. Indeed, she rather wanted him to talk while 
 they were together to save her from talking, and to 
 keep his thoughts away from her ; and she was se- 
 cretly wondering how she might, when they got 
 below, get rid of him for a little while, so that she and 
 the dead might be left alone to their sad communion. 
 
 'Take care,' he suddenly called out, 'or you'll 
 get down sooner than you want.' 
 
 Phoebe started ; she was on the very edge of the 
 black opening into the vault, and had not noticed it 
 owing to the peculiar light, or rather the partially 
 glorified obscurity of the place. 
 
 ' Now then, I'll go first. The steps are good 
 enough if you don't try to take 'em two at a time.'
 
 AN INNOCENT IMPOSTOB LYING IN STATE. 147 
 
 He moved downward till his head was on a level 
 with the surrounding pavement ; then, holding one 
 hand and arm firmly up, he said— 
 
 ' There, take hold, and don't let go till I tell you.' 
 Phoehe obeyed, and felt her hand tremble in his the 
 while. He noticed it too, and said — 
 
 * Ay, it's a queer place to go down into, and es- 
 pecially towards gloaming. Not many women, I 
 guess, would ha' the boldness to venture. But 
 women, I suppose, will do anything for a babby.' 
 
 Phoebe said nothing, but went down — lower and 
 lower still, supported by Joshua Darkley's strong 
 arm, and for so many steps that she got quite ner- 
 vous as to the depth, in case she were to fall, or the 
 steps to give way. She began also to feel the air 
 oppress her. Death seemed to enter into her veins 
 with every breath she drew. She wished herself 
 back again in the sunshine, but still she went quietly 
 downwards till her foot rested at last on the invisible 
 floor. And then she stood for an instant or two in 
 entire darkness, while Joshua lighted a lantern he 
 had brought with him from the cottage in case he 
 
 might need it while putting a finish to the day's job. 
 
 l2
 
 148 GUT WATERMAN. 
 
 By the feeble rays thus emitted Phcebe was gra- 
 dually able to see that she was in a round brick 
 chamber with stone ribs meeting in the centre of the 
 hollow roof; and that there was a low and wide stone 
 table or shelf that extended all round the place on 
 which stood coffins in various stages of decay, yet 
 with bright gleams of metal appearing through the 
 discoloured surfaces, and among the black velvet 
 strips that hung about them in rags. 
 
 ' Here they are, all on 'em, for the last two cen- 
 turies — father, mother, husband, wife, sou, daughter 
 — all gathered together from different parts of the 
 world, as though they couldn't, you see, rest any- 
 where in the end but at home.' 
 
 Phoebe's eyes ran rapidly round, looking for the 
 newest incomer to the place. Joshua raised his 
 lantern and said — 
 
 * Come a bit this way. There it is.' He pointed 
 to a very handsome coffin, one large enough for a 
 full-grown person. 
 
 * But the child ? ' whispered Phoebe. 
 
 ' Why, inside o' that to be sure ; the big 'un's 
 for the poor lady. It was the steward as proposed
 
 AN INNOCENT IMPOSTOR LYING IN STATE. 149 
 
 to the squire to have things done in that way ; but 
 between you and I and the post there, of all the 
 people that's giv' out to be drownded more comes 
 back than stays away — and if so be as she was to 
 come back — ' 
 
 * What ! ' cried Phoebe wildly, * what are you 
 talkin' about ? Didn't I see her drowned ? Can the 
 sea give up its dead ? ' 
 
 * Heyday, an' bless us ! but you needn't make a 
 man's words choke him. Did I say as she'd come 
 back ? I was a goin' to say, if so be she did, she 
 wouldn't thank Mr. Paraple for providin' this for 
 her. I know I shouldn't.' 
 
 Phcebe could scarcely speak for agitation, but she 
 did manage to express her disappointment at not 
 seeing the coffin of the child. Thus enclosed, it 
 seemed as much shut out from her eyes and her 
 heart as if she had never ventured into so dreadful 
 a place in the hope of a closer communion. 
 
 But she knew how to deal with Mr. Darkley if 
 dealings were at all possible. So presently she 
 began, 
 
 * Well, I told my people at home I'd sec the last
 
 150 GUY WATERMAN. 
 
 of him, though I had come hack so late ; and that's 
 why I troubled you and the missus. But I can 
 afford to pay you for loss of time, and I'll take it 
 kindly if you'll help me.' 
 
 * What do you mean ? That I'm to unscrew the 
 lids of both coffins, and let you see the dead babby 
 face to face? Not if I know it, Mrs. Waterman. 
 It's onreasonable ! ' 
 
 ' Come, Mr. Darkley, you have obliged people 
 afore now.' Joshua pricked up his ears at that. It 
 sounded queer, he thought ; even menacing, and as 
 though it intimated a particular knowledge. He 
 began to wonder if he had ever let out anything 
 about graveyard secrets to Phoebe's husband. He 
 couldn't remember any, but he didn't feel quite so 
 secure as to be inclined to display a flag of defiance. 
 
 ' I'd have to fetch tools ; and there'd be no end 
 o' trouble,' he objected. 
 
 ' Well, Joshua, you know when a woman has a 
 whim she ought to be humoured. You can't deny 
 that, can you ? Here, take this, and do as I tell 
 you.' Phcebe put a half-guinea in Joshua's hand, 
 who at once pocketed it, and said,
 
 AN INNOCENT IMPOSTOR LYING IN STATE. 151 
 
 ' Wait you here. Don't be afear'd, I'll soon be 
 back.' He put the lantern on the ground and 
 began to mount the steps. 
 
 Phoebe, who had done this as much to get rid of 
 him for an instant as for the reasons alleged, no 
 sooner saw his legs disappear through the opening 
 at the top of the steps, than she threw herself on her 
 knees beside the coffin, and poured forth all that 
 passion of tears which had been long gathering, long 
 repressed, but which now found unrestricted way at 
 last. Her whole frame quivered. She sobbed 
 audibly, in spite of the danger of the sexton's over- 
 hearing her ; and again and again she murmured in 
 tones of the deepest anguish, 
 
 ' My boy ! My own, my own ! Don't think I 
 liave ceased to love thee because another is in thy 
 place. It is for thy sake I love him ; for thy sake 
 I want him. Oh, darling, darling ! ' 
 
 After a few moments she experienced some relief. 
 She grew calmer. She began to dry her tears. 
 Again the future put forth its claims. The sense 
 of danger for a moment forgotten, revived. Already 
 her thoughts wandered towards Mrs. Beck, and to
 
 152 GUT WATEEMAN. 
 
 the possibility of meeting with her at the sexton's. 
 By the time Joshua returned Phoebe was quite her- 
 self again, and had determined upon a change of 
 purpose. 
 
 ' Well, after all, Joshua, I think we won't trouble 
 to open the coffins. I've seen the vault, and that's 
 enough for one like me to say.' 
 
 * Meaning,' observed Joshua drily, *you want the 
 half-guinea back ? ' 
 
 'AVell, no, Joshua;' and Phoebe managed to 
 raise a laugh that had a most unearthly sound in 
 that vaulted place. ' I think I've a little more sense 
 than to expect that from you, Joshua/ 
 
 Joshua appreciated the compliment, and grew 
 at once respectful and contented. As he took up 
 the lantern, and as they both stopped for a last look 
 round, when they reached the steps, he said, 
 
 ' What stories they do tell, sure-ly, of places like 
 these ! I was reading the other day in a book as 
 how there is a vault in some forin' country where 
 they never goes into it, after it has been a long 
 time closed, but they find the coffins all abroad, 
 as it were ; some sticking up on end — some at the
 
 AN INNOCENT IMPOSTOR LYING IN STATE. 153 
 
 top as were before at the bottom, and vicey- 
 varcey.' 
 
 ' But you don't believe it ? ' hoarsely asked 
 Phoebe, whose eyes were trying to make out the 
 exact form of some shadow that puzzled her, and 
 which she fancied moved. 
 
 ' Well, I never see'd anything of the sort here,' 
 was Joshua's cautious reply; for he didn't at all 
 desire to lessen the natural and superstitious terrors 
 that hung about his vocation. But Phoebe's thoughts 
 were turned suddenly in another course by the 
 remark, ' I had to go home for the tools, and I 
 found Mrs. Beck there. She's jist come in to tea.' 
 
 Phoebe heard, and thought to herself as she as- 
 cended the steps — 
 
 ' As I live, that woman's watching me ! She has 
 guessed I might come here. What does it all 
 mean ? She cannot really suspect the truth ? O 
 no ! no ! no ! She was to have stayed with Stephen 
 and prepared supper. It's very odd. But I'm not 
 going to be frightened ; I know I'm Safe. And I'll 
 let her know what I think if she ventures to hint 
 anything.'
 
 154 GUY WATERMAN. 
 
 The baby was still asleep — as PhoBbe was glad to 
 find — and the two women were at their tea. Susan 
 did not wait for questions, but said at once, 
 
 ' I thought you'd have a deal to do, and that you 
 wouldn't be able to get home yet awhile ; and as 
 Stephen wanted to finish that wonderful box of his 
 to surprise you with it to-morrow, I thought I'd come 
 and have a cup of tea with Mrs. Darkley. But 1 
 little thought o' meeting you here.* 
 
 Phoebe stooped to look at the babe as she quietly 
 replied, 'If I hadn't ha' come to-night the vault 
 would ha' been shut up ; and o' course I wanted to 
 see the place where the poor dear was buried — and 
 his mother and father so kind to me ! The squire 
 says he'll be a friend to my boy, and he's going to 
 be his godfather.' 
 
 ' Godfather ! ' was echoed by the others. 
 
 * Yes/ said Phoebe with a little of her old arro- 
 gance peeping out, * and he's to be called Guy.' 
 
 * Why, that's one of the Dalrymple names ; that 
 cross-legged knight you seed in the chancel was 
 a Sir Guy,' observed the sexton. 
 
 'And,' continued Phoebe, rising and coming to-
 
 AN INNOCENT IMPOSTOR LYING IN STATE. 155 
 
 wards the table, * he has given me this for my boy 
 as his godfather's gift.' And Phoebe took off the 
 watch and chain, and laid them on the table ; and 
 waited in silence to enjoy their exclamations of 
 wonder as they looked at and examined them, all 
 eagerly pressing round. 
 
 * Why, it must ha' cost a mint o' money ! ' said 
 Joshua. * It's a repeater. Hark ! I'll make it 
 strike and tell us the time.' And while he did so, 
 and while Phoebe watched him with a "proud aspect, 
 she caught, suddenly, Mrs. Beck's eyes looking at 
 her with an undefinable expression of curiosity and 
 envy, or dislike, that made her wish once more she 
 was safe at home, and the packet from Mrs. Dal- 
 rymple hidden where no jealous scrutiny might ever 
 find it.
 
 CHAPTER XIV. 
 
 THE WORKSHOP AT TANFIELD. 
 
 Phoebe would not share the tea-table delicacies 
 proffered to her; she was naturally anxious, she said, 
 to get back to Stephen, and to see about the bit of 
 supper that had to be got ready. And wouldn't 
 Mr. and Mrs. Darkley join them in two or three 
 hours' time ? 
 
 Of course the sexton and his wife accepted the in- 
 vitation ; for Phoebe was just now the most interest- 
 ing person in the parish — more decidedly interesting 
 even than the poor squire himself; for he had not 
 been a sharer in the romantic expedition, nor nursed 
 the dead baby, nor seen Mrs. Dalrymple die ; and 
 Phoebe Waterman had done all these things. So it 
 was soon settled that they were to meet for a late 
 supper at Stephen's house ; and Susan Beck was to 
 return in good time to her duties of helping in
 
 THE WORKSHOP AT TANFIELD. 
 
 157 
 
 the preparations— duties which she had already un- 
 dertaken, but somehow forgot to fulfil in her love of 
 gossiping with Mrs. Darkley, or of fondness for Mrs. 
 Darkley's buttered hot cakes, or, perhaps, of desire 
 to watch Phoebe's operations from the near ground 
 of the sexton's house. 
 
 For as Phoebe went homewards, with the boy 
 once more tucked under her shawl, she was at a loss 
 to know which of these motives it really was that 
 had so suddenly tempted her neighbour to invite 
 herself out to tea. 
 
 ' I wonder,' thought Phoebe to herself, ' if I had 
 better make her a handsome present ? I might give 
 her one of the trinkets my lady gave to me. I 
 know she likes that sort of finery, and I know she 
 has been quiet about awkward matters that she might 
 ha' mentioned when people have amused her in that 
 way. But all depends upon what she thinks herself 
 at the time. If there is a secret, and it's one that 
 troubles some poor lady's mind, but that wouldn't 
 much amuse the world even if it knew all about it, 
 Mrs. Beck can be demure enough, and a gift then 
 goes a long way, even if no word be said. I've seen
 
 158 GUY WATERMAN. 
 
 it of her, and I know it's true, though she thinks me 
 blind. But if she fancied she'd got an inkling of a 
 real secret — one like this of mine — a gift would be 
 sure to confirm her notion, and she'd get more and 
 more bold and unconscionable every day. No, no. 
 Mrs, Beck ! you won't catch me at that gate, I 
 promise you ! ' 
 
 Still Phcebe felt uncomfortable as she recalled 
 the furtive look which had escaped Susan while the 
 watch was being displayed. Phoebe wanted to re- 
 main what she had so long been — friendly with her 
 clever neighbour ; and she could not help, therefore, 
 fancying it might be wise to try to win her somehow. 
 So presently she said to herself, 
 
 * Yes, I'll give her the brooch. It's not so very 
 valuable as to seem intended to mean anything par- 
 ticular; and I know she admires it, for when I 
 showed it to her as my lady's gift on my last birth- 
 day she took it up so often and praised it so very 
 much that I got quite hot and uncomfortable — it 
 looked so like wanting it from me. Yes, I'll give 
 it to her, and say it's for her attention to Stephen 
 while I've been away. She did promise she would
 
 THE WORKSHOP AT TANFIELD. 159 
 
 look to him, and I dare say she has. Yes, I'll do 
 that ; and afterwards, if she follows me about, 
 or makes me speak at all, by hinting at anything 
 mysterious in me or my behaviour, I'll let her see 
 that I laugh at her absurdity, and that I can deal 
 with her insolence. Oh, if that packet were but 
 safe ! I used to feel as if it burned into my flesh 
 whenever I felt it knock against me ; but now I 
 want it back, and I feel horribly frightened every 
 time I miss it.' 
 
 And here Phoebe asked herself should she go 
 direct home, and trust to visiting the workshop late 
 in the night or early morning, or should she go now, 
 and get rid of the anxiety at once ? She was more 
 likely to be seen, and might be more easily watched 
 now, during the evening light while people were 
 about. But then the fact of her going to the shed 
 at such a time was not calculated to raise a question 
 in anybody's mind, unless it were in that of the 
 incomprehensible Mrs. Beck. On the other hand, 
 if she went an hour or two after midnight, no mor- 
 tal eye would be a* all likely to watch her doings 
 there ; but the very fact of her going at all, if
 
 160 
 
 GUY WATERMAIT. 
 
 known, might be fatal. Phoebe decided to go at 
 once. And she was the more readily led to this 
 conclusion from remembering that she knew just 
 then exactly where Susan Beck was, and how she 
 was engaged. 
 
 Phoebe had to go a long way round to get into 
 Tanfield (where the workshop stood) without being 
 seen from the village. She met no one. There was 
 an opening in the hedge separating Tanfield from 
 the cow-pastures ; and getting through this she 
 made her way to the workshop, bending down very 
 low so that the long grass concealed her from any 
 eyes that might have been looking from her own 
 garden door, or from the windows of the adjoining 
 cottages. 
 
 As soon as she was in the shed she closed the 
 door, stooped with the babe in her arms, while she 
 made him a bed of the shavings, and then laid him 
 down. All this day the babe, partly through the 
 operation of some opiate which Phoebe had adminis- 
 tered, and partly, perhaps, through the sleepiness 
 induced by so much exposure to the air, had been 
 very quiet, and scarcely given Phoebe the least
 
 THE WORKSHOP AT TANFIELD. 161 
 
 trouble, but now lie began to cry. Phoebe, fright- 
 ened at the noise, took him up, soothed him, and 
 put him down again. The child, however, cried 
 louder than ever. What was to be done ? For 
 Phoebe to be found there, and unable to explain 
 satisfactorily how she had got in without passing the 
 house would be most dangerous. While hesitating 
 she groped on her knees for the packet, with the aid 
 of a stick, and found it just where she had left it. 
 She then glided to the door, and thence to the 
 window and looked out. No one was near. Distress- 
 ing as were the child's cries, they could not be heard 
 unless there were bystanders. Phoebe felt she must 
 go on, heedless of the babe. 
 
 She went to her husband's tool-basket : she took 
 from it a long tool — once a chisel, now perhaps a 
 screwdriver, for it had lost its edge. With this in 
 her hand, she began to survey very closely the sur- 
 face of the walls. They were of brick, not very 
 well laid originally, nor very abundantly supplied 
 with mortar. Phoebe's idea — one that she had been 
 slowly maturing at intervals all through the day — 
 was that she could find or make a place behind the 
 
 VOL. I. u
 
 162 GUY WATEEMAN. 
 
 bricks in which to deposit the dangerous package. 
 She recollected that a brick had been once loosened 
 by Stephen low down the wall when he wanted to 
 knock in a nail ; and that the brick had been taken 
 out by him and left out for some time. And he 
 had then got into a habit of placing his tools at 
 times on the brickwork at the bottom of the aper- 
 ture, using it as a shelf or ledge, until he found the 
 tools were continually tumbling down at the back 
 into a hollow between the front layer and a second 
 layer behind, from which he found it tedious to get 
 them up. It had struck Phoebe that this was the 
 kind of place for her. The wall was dry. No acci- 
 dent was at all likely to injure the book or the 
 letter within ; and no safer place, she thought, 
 could be desired, if only she could be sure of getting 
 it secretly and safely deposited at the beginning. 
 That was tlie point, and Phoebe showed how seri- 
 ously conscious she was of it by stopping continually 
 to listen between the fits of the babe's crying. Once 
 she thought she heard some one approaching, and 
 she stood a vivid picture of alarm, expectation, 
 and conscious guilt. After a moment's pause she
 
 THE WORKSHOP AT TANFIELD. 163 
 
 dropped to the floor, not allowing her clothes to 
 rustle, and put her head to the ground and kept it 
 there for a time that, however short in itself, must 
 have seemed an age to the agitated listener. Satisfied 
 at last, she drew herself forward on her knees to the 
 baby's bed of shavings, kissed her ill-gotten prize, 
 murmuring the while, * Hush, darling, hush ! We'll 
 go soon.' 
 
 Continuing her survey over the higher parts of 
 the wall, for she would not have the place within 
 easy reach, she could not by sight alone convince 
 herself where to begin. She wanted to find a brick 
 so square and complete at the edges and strong- 
 looking that she might venture to force it out of its 
 bed, and yet hope to be able to replace it so tliat it 
 might look as immovable as the rest. Then, again, 
 it seemed to her that, if she could find one of the 
 bricks already and accidentally loose, she would get 
 more quickly and more neatly through the task. 
 So she went round the wall, reaching as high as she 
 could with her instrument, standing upon a clump 
 of wood, which she pushed before her as she went, 
 
 and tapping and thrusting at the brickwork with no 
 
 m2
 
 164 GUY WATERMAN. 
 
 other result than to get her eyes full of dust and 
 mortar. 
 
 The babe was still crying, and time fiist passing 
 away. Mrs. Beck might have come ])ack, and, 
 missing Phoebe, might come direct to the workshop. 
 There would be a sight for her ! The mere fancy 
 of it set Phoebe at work with fresh and more despe- 
 rate vigour. With almost superhuman strength 
 she managed to drag or push — she hardly stopped 
 to know or think which — Stephen's heavy bench, 
 inch by inch, towards the wall, until she thought it 
 was sufficiently near. She leaped upon it with an 
 agility that fashionable ladies might envy, and at 
 once set to work at a particular brick that struck 
 her fancy. It fitted its place so very closely that 
 there had been little room for mortar, a fact that 
 was easily accounted for : it was one entire and 
 gennine brick among a host of broken and shabby 
 counterfeits that had been used, doubtless, over and 
 over again, descending probably a step each time 
 until the baked clay that had first served for some 
 aristocratic mansion had been used up finally in 
 Stephen Waterman's shed. But the brick would
 
 THE WORKSHOP AT TANFIELD. 165 
 
 not move. It seemed to Phoebe that, if she cun- 
 tinued to prize at it so strongly she should bring 
 down half-a-dozen of its neighbours instead. So she 
 began to insert the tool bit by bit all the way round 
 — a tedious process, and one that almost drove 
 Phoebe mad to have to do at such a time. When she 
 had got once round it she pushed at it, but it did not 
 move. She struck at it with the rounded wooden 
 end of the tool-handle, but still it seemed fast. 
 Again she had to go slowly and patiently round, 
 inserting the tool more deeply, and prizing with 
 it from time to time, but it stuck as fast as ever, 
 and seemed to defy all Phoebe's efforts. She 
 stopped, fatigued. Her arms ached with their 
 inconvenient position in being raised so high at the 
 work. Phoebe began to blame her stupidity. She 
 was no bricklayer, and had only a woman's art, and 
 a woman's ordinary knowledge to help her, and 
 they failed her now. Tears of vexation started to 
 her eyes. Suddenly it struck her to try what she 
 could do with the adjoining brick, which was of a 
 more broken shape. She managed to lodge the 
 sharp end of the tool in a little crevice, and so to
 
 166 
 
 GUY WATERMAN. 
 
 get a leverage ngainst the neighbouring edge, and 
 to her delight the broken brick moved. She re- 
 peated the operation with care, each time getting it 
 a little farther, and at last she drew it out with 
 ease ; and then she found that by putting her hand 
 into the vacant space she could also draw out the 
 perfect one. Putting down the two bricks in suc- 
 cession on the bench, she bared her arm and felt 
 within the aperture : but there was no hollow behind. 
 Should she chip a piece off from one of the bricks 
 she had removed, or should she try to make a space 
 in the second layer at the back ? She felt again 
 with her hand, and fancied it was some kind of 
 rough rubbish, not brick, at the back. She began, 
 therefore, to dig by striking with the tool in her right 
 hand while clearing away with her left, every now 
 and then, the rubbish she made. And thus, too, 
 she tested the increasing size of the space. 
 
 It was horrible to her, all this delay, which seemed 
 as if it would have no end. Once she was about to 
 put in the packet and try if it left room for the 
 brick, but the fear she would only lose time use- 
 essly — that she had not yet made the hole large
 
 THE AVORKSHOP AT TANFIELI>. 167 
 
 enough — drove her on still striking with irregular 
 strength and flickering energy for some little time 
 longer. Then at last, when she had measured the 
 distance from the front by the aid of the screwdriver, 
 and saw it must be sufficient if she only rested the 
 packet on its edge, she stopped, rested the tool on 
 the bench, wiped the perspiration from her brow and 
 her hands, and paused to look round and listen. 
 All was still — even the babe had cried itself to sleep 
 at last. 
 
 Completely reassured, Phoebe took the packet 
 from her pocket and turned to place it in the newly- 
 made receptacle. At that moment she felt her 
 gown plucked, the blood rushed into her face and 
 then left it deadly white, her knees quivered, and 
 she dropped half-fainting on the bench, with the 
 exclamation, 
 
 ' O God ! who is that ? '
 
 CHAPTER XV. 
 
 PHCEBE AND SUSAN COME TO AN ARMISTICE. 
 
 There was no answer to Phoebe's cry of terror ; 
 no sound even. She turned as soon as her faculties 
 began to rally, and then perceived, with a sense of 
 inexpressible relief, that her dress had caught upon 
 the sharp edge of a screw driven into the bench, 
 and against which Stephen was accustomed to rest 
 the end of a piece of wood when planing it. 
 
 Phoebe laughed hysterically as she released her 
 dress, and said to herself, ' What an idiot I was to 
 be so scared at nothing ! ' 
 
 Standing erect once more, she now, after another 
 glance round, pushed the packet into its place ; and 
 then put in one of the bricks, which fitted nicely, 
 and then the other, which would not fit at all, but 
 stuck out several inches beyond its place. With a 
 sigh of vexation Phoebe drew it out, and found, as
 
 PHCEBE AND SGSAN COME TO AN ARMISTICE. 169 
 
 she supposed, that the packet had fallen down. 
 Again she set it on edge, and with greater care, 
 and tested its balanced position hy a slight tap which 
 did not disturb it. Again she lifted the well-formed 
 brick from the bench and pushed it in quite home. 
 She stepped back to look. The result was all she 
 could have desired. If now she could only fix these 
 two bricks so that no one might find them loose, either 
 through accident or suspicion, she would be able to 
 rest in peace. She stepped lightly from the bench, 
 found a hard, thin, wedge-shaped bit of wood among 
 the chips on the floor. This she inserted between 
 the two bricks, and drove it so far that it was quite 
 imperceptible to the eye. She pushed against the 
 bricks ; they were as immovable as ever. She 
 knocked strongly against each with the handle of the 
 screw-driver, but they were quite fast, seeming to 
 be one with the rest of the wall, and to ring like 
 the rest. 
 
 * Thank God!' said Phoebe, as she got down 
 from the bench. People will thank God at times 
 when engaged in anything but godly practices. 
 
 She now brushed hastily up together into a heap all
 
 170 
 
 GUY WATEKMAN. 
 
 the dust and bits of mortar which she had deposited 
 on the bench during her operations. She swept the 
 bench with her clean white pocket-handkerchief 
 until the wood was almost as clean. Then she took 
 up the heap in her joined hands and transferred it 
 to the handkerchief, rolled it tightly up, and put it 
 in her pocket ; and, lastly, she blew away whatever 
 might remain of the dust on the bench. 
 
 But there was the bench itself to get back to 
 its place. It was wonderful how much heavier 
 it seemed now than before. Phoebe actually de- 
 spaired of success when she first began to try to 
 move it. But she had done it, she knew that ; 
 and she must do it again — that was equally 
 clear. So with great bodily distress it was finally 
 achieved. 
 
 With heaving frame and panting breath she 
 looked again about her with a long, searching, 
 listening, and satisfying look. No mysterious eyes 
 were seen peering in upon her — no wandering foot- 
 step was heard moving stealthily away. 
 
 Yes, it was done, Phoebe thought. Her secret 
 was safe within that wall, whence no hand but
 
 PHOEBE AND SUSAN COME TO AN ARMISTICE. 171 
 
 her own was ever likely to bring it forth except at 
 her desire. 
 
 Now, then, to get into the cottage. Phoebe tried 
 to take up the babe without waking it, but failed ; 
 so she put it to the breast ; and thus encumbered, 
 she unlocked the door, glided out again, keeping 
 below the front of the hedge, forced a passage 
 through the hedge at the back, got into the field, 
 and so again into the high road, where she shook out 
 the contents of her handkerchief, and where a short 
 walk brought her into the proper route. 
 
 Scarcely two minutes later she heard a hasty 
 step behind. She turned, and there was Mrs. 
 Beck! 
 
 'So, Mrs. Waterman, I have overtaken you I 
 Why, I thought you'd ha' got home ever so long 
 ago,' observed Mrs. Beck, as she came up to 
 Phoebe, rather out of breath, and seemingly a little 
 moved out of her ordinarily passionless exterior. 
 
 * Yes ; I was so tired, and the dear boy is so 
 heavy, I couldn't get on fast,' replied Phcebe. 
 
 ' I met Old Farnley, the shepherd, on the road, 
 and he said he hadn't seen you,' was the next remark.
 
 172 
 
 GUT WATERMAN. 
 
 Phoebe quaked a little as she received this dan- 
 gerous flying shot, that seemed to say it was known 
 that she had been somewhere out of her proper 
 road ; but she replied, with creditable presence of 
 mind — 
 
 ' Oh, I uent into the field to sit down on the grass 
 out of sight of the passers-by ; ' and she was going 
 to add that she had seen old Farnley if he had not 
 seen her, but remembered that the lie was not 
 necessary, and might be dangerous with a woman 
 so acute as Mrs. Beck. 
 
 ' Do you mean at the white gate leading into the 
 cow pastures ? ' - 
 
 Phoebe saw the critical and long-expected mo- 
 ment had come. If she ventured a single step 
 further in her replies she might be entangled ; yet 
 if she did not, what could she do ? She answered 
 that question by turning round full on Mrs. Beck, 
 and looking at her with eyes that, if they lacked 
 that lady's power of concealing thought and emotion, 
 possessed in vivid development the exactly opposite 
 quality — that of revealing whatever mood of pas- 
 sion or sentiment was uppermost in Phcebe at the
 
 PHCEBE AND SUSAN CO]\IE TO AN AEMISTICE. 173 
 
 time. Mrs. Beck found it a bard task to confront 
 with her own calm, scrutinizing gaze those fierce 
 glittering orbs, that seemed full of the lightning 
 flash ; but she did do it, even though the unfathom- 
 able grey eye appeared to grow smaller and smaller, 
 as if shrinking back into the obscurity, it so much 
 loved, 
 
 ' Now, Susan Beck, I think it's high time to tell 
 you a bit of my mind. Ever since we met to-day, 
 instead of welcoming me in a kind, neighbour-like 
 way, you seem to ha' been watching me, and diving 
 into me, and suspecting me ; and now, before we 
 get home, and run the risk of spoiling our supper, 
 let's have it out and ha' done with it ; for I tell you 
 plainly, Mrs. Beck, I won't stand it, and if you vex 
 me by any more of this kind of behaviour I shall be 
 like to forget my manners and slap your face for 
 you.' 
 
 Susan smiled, just a little, but soon relapsed into 
 her ordinary aspect of seriousness as she said, 
 taking no notice of the personal threat, 
 
 * Hoity-toity, here's a to-do ! as though you had 
 only now learned for the first time that I am an
 
 174 GUY AVATERMAN. 
 
 inquisitive sort of body, and make it my business to 
 know all about my neigbbours' affairs.' 
 
 * No you don't, unless you expect to get something 
 by it.' Plioebe felt that she had here repaid Susan, 
 who seemed to feel so too, for she laughed and 
 looked conscious, a most uncommon thing for her. 
 ' Now,' continued Phoebe, * what do you expect to 
 get out of me ? ' 
 
 * Well, just the rights of the story, that's all,' 
 meekly replied Susan Beck. 
 
 * Do you mean I haven't told the truth about 
 it, or about my lady, — or — about the cliild ? ' 
 
 ' Or about what you have got over the affair,' in- 
 terposed Mrs. Beck, in the same tone, and just as 
 though it was really Phoebe speaking, not herself. 
 And by this one unlucky remark (made, too, in 
 opposition to her own usual practice never to say an 
 unnecessary word) she convinced Phoebe that, after 
 all, she not only knew nothing, but that even her 
 suspicions must have gone in a wrong direction. 
 After a moment's pause to enjoy the relief this gave 
 her, she burst into a hearty laugh as she put out 
 her hand to her neighbour, who took it into her own.
 
 PHCEBE AND SUSAN COME TO AN ARMISTICE. 175 
 
 which had always a clammy feel, and said, 'Well, 
 I dare say, Susan, you can't understand how it is 
 that I could have been so great a fool as not to think 
 about these matters, but I didn't, and that's the 
 long and short of it. And if you want to know all 
 that I did get, why, I'll tell you with the greatest 
 pleasure in the world. She gave me a hundred 
 pounds, twenty of it for myself and husband, and 
 the rest to be put by for the boy.' 
 
 Phoebe said this with so much heartiness and 
 truthfulness of manner (as she very well might, 
 since it was true) that Susan, after a long look 
 at Phoebe's face, showed that she was unwillingly 
 convinced ; and she tried to smile in accordance 
 with her professed satisfaction, but she couldn't, so 
 discontinued the attempt. And thus ended Susan 
 Beck's last direct effort to extract anything to her 
 advantage from Phoebe's own admissions. Whether 
 she was in her real mind satisfied that Phoebe had no 
 secret to tell, and that the words she had over- 
 heard at the fimeral about Phoebe keeping her own 
 counsel meant nothing of any moment, we may, 
 perhaps, learn more about as we proceed with this
 
 176 GUY WATERMAN. 
 
 history. But for the present she was silenced. She 
 saw that Phoebe would be an awkward person to deal 
 with if she — Mrs. Beck— continued obviously to 
 watch her ; and that she would lose a valuable 
 neighbour if she allowed the quarrel to go on ; and 
 then, she asked herself with timely prudence, where 
 was Susy to go to during her mother's frequent en- 
 gagements from home ? 
 
 These considerations worked a marvellous change 
 in Susan. If she seldom smiled herself (and then 
 only when the smile meant something that the 
 receiver of it would be anything but inclined to 
 reciprocate, if the meaning were fully understood) 
 she knew how to make others smile when she 
 pleased. She was full of anecdotes ; and, as they 
 were mostly based on her own persoual experience, 
 and were told w4th extraordinary shrewdness, and 
 with a vein of amusing though corroding satire, they 
 were naturally very interesting to a person like 
 Phoebe, who soon recovered her old leaning towards 
 her neighbour, and listened, and laughed, and com- 
 mented briefly in an enjoying spirit of reply till 
 they reached the house.
 
 CHAPTER XVI. 
 
 AFTER HER DAy's WORK PHCEBE ENJOYS HER 
 SUPPER. 
 
 Whatever of gloom, or doubt, or fear, or vacil- 
 lation of purpose affected Phoebe through all this 
 long and (for her) memorable day disappeared 
 when she sat down at night to supper at her own 
 board to help Stephen to entertain their numerous 
 guests. All her old self came out again. The 
 characteristic traits were a little exaggerated per- 
 haps by a certain necessity for effort, but not spoiled. 
 She was genial, light-hearted, full of frolic, playing 
 off occasionally a practical joke that was met with 
 roars of laughter, attentive to everybody, and so 
 hospitable that she made everyone feel at home and 
 quite prepared for a real feast. 
 
 Stephen, too, had for once been generous and 
 open-handed in his caterings for the table. Right 
 
 VOL. I. N 
 
 f
 
 178 GUY WATERMAN. 
 
 before the sexton, Mr. Darkley, was a duck stuffed 
 with such appetizing herbs that he grew ill-terapered 
 at the ceremonial delays ; and more than once took 
 up his knife with a threatening gesture to cut into 
 it, but dropped it again despairingly, as he saw that 
 no one imitated his example. And there were the 
 marrowfats growing cold : such magnificent ones 
 Joshua had never seen, and he wondered where they 
 came from ; and then he wondered if he could get 
 equally fine ones if he were to plant some of the 
 seed in that little corner of his garden wiiich joined 
 ihe old churchyard. It was wonderful how luxu- 
 riantly everything grew in that corner ; and Joshua, 
 if he guessed the reason, didn't at all mind it if only 
 he could get such marrowfats. A piece of roast 
 beef, flanked with Yorkshire pudding, was before 
 Stephen ; who stood up with a snowy-white handker- 
 chief tucked into the pockets of his newly-washed 
 crt am-coloured waistcoat, bowing every instant to 
 the guests as they came in from the garden, where 
 they had lounged about in a spirit of courtesy 
 (knowing there was no second room to receive them) 
 till told all was ready. And, lastly, in front of
 
 AFTER HER DAy's WORK PIICEBE ENJOYS SUPPER, 179 
 
 Phoebe, who took her place at the other end opposite 
 Stephen, was an enormous rabbit-pie, which she cut 
 into between the pauses of her talk, and thus let out 
 fresh and still more tantalizing odour towards the 
 nose of Joshua Darkley, which had not been at all 
 spoiled by his peculiar occupation. In fact, as a good 
 background is an indispensable adjunct to a good 
 picture, so it might almost be said that Joshua found 
 the graveyard scent which always clung about him 
 only a kind of heightening or relief to whatever of 
 a more agreeable nature might approach his olfac- 
 tory nerves. At all events, it is a fact that Joshua 
 was not only a great eater but a refined epicure in 
 all those preliminary monitions that diffuse before- 
 hand the knowledge of agreeable eating to come. 
 And if we have not given the right theory, it is, 
 at all events, the only one that we are prepared to 
 offer, since Joshua himself never condescended to 
 explanations. 
 
 The guests were, of course, all humble but mostly 
 well-to-do people, small tradesmen, small farmers, 
 and comfortable mechanics, with their wives. There 
 was a carrier and his wife. lie was a big, bulky
 
 180 GUY WATERMAN. 
 
 man, as famous for his size as for h'.s love of gossip, 
 and dearly loved to hear of a new scandal or to get 
 a listener to whom it might be retailed, as he drove 
 along under his canvas roof through the green lanes 
 in his regular expeditions to the great town some 
 fifteen miles distant. He had a loud, explosive way 
 of talking, that made the smallest facts assume impor- 
 tance when related by him, and a love of humour that 
 kept him from making his other habits an infliction. 
 
 Susan Beck at first took a seat that was offered 
 to her by the carrier's side ; but finding that every- 
 body listened to what he was saying to her whenever 
 he spoke, so that if a promising secret oozed out 
 everybody must share it, she shifted her quarters, 
 saying, with a laugh, and pointing to him the while, 
 " I'm afraid of him, he's such a big man ! Besides, 
 he's got his own wife by his side, and I don't think 
 I ought to desert Stephen, who hasn't got his yet.' 
 So saying, and pretending to look defiantly at 
 Phoebe, who laughed an answer, Mrs. Beck went 
 and took the vacant chair by Stephen's right hand, 
 
 Phoebe, who had been watching for just such a 
 chance as this, now observed.
 
 AFTER HER DAY's WORK PHCEBE ENJOYS SUPPER. 181 
 
 * Come, neighbours, sit down. We're all here, I 
 think. Just twelve! no; why, I declare there's 
 thirteen. That won't do. It's unlucky.' 
 
 ' Shall I go away ? ' asked Mrs. Beck, demurely. 
 
 ' Yes,' said Phoebe, saucily, and made a slight 
 pause before she continued, with a laugh ; ' do, and 
 fetch Susy.' 
 
 ' Oh, she's in bed,' replied Mrs. Beck, looking 
 pleased at the suggestion. 
 
 ' All the better ; she'll think the more of the 
 feast when she's called up to it,' observed Phoebe ; 
 ' but do make haste. The pie's getting cold.' 
 
 * So's the duck ! ' savagely growled Joshua. 
 
 * ril be back in two minutes. You musn't mind 
 her dress.' And away Susan went. 
 
 Phoebe then took out of her breast a large and 
 very handsome cameo brooch, the gift of her late 
 mistress, and handed it to the carrier, saying, 
 
 ' When you've looked at it pass it to my old man. 
 Ay, Stephen,' she continued, in answer to his in- 
 quiring look, * it's the last time you'll handle it, I 
 promise you ! Now, don't stare so, and don't look 
 so woe-begone ! It's a nice brooch, isn't it? What'll
 
 182 GUY WATERMAN. 
 
 you give rae for it?' added Phoebe, turning her 
 brilliant eyes on the carrier and making them look 
 at him quite languishingly. 
 
 The carrier wondered whether she really meant 
 to give it to him, and whether a kiss was the price 
 he was to offer, and, in his doubt, turned to look at 
 his little wife, who didn't at all seem to approve of 
 the position. Again Phoebe laughed, and watched 
 the cameo as it went round from hand to hand, but 
 she said no more till the return of Susan Beck with 
 tbe child. 
 
 Everyone was startled to see the latter. Not- 
 withstanding the shortness of the time, and the fact 
 of her being in bed — possibly asleep — when dis- 
 turbed by her mother's call, she stood there smiling 
 graciously, and quite salf-possessed, in the richest • 
 finery that her fond mother's long and patient care 
 had been able to bestow. She did not seem at all 
 astonished, but moved forwards, graceful as a little 
 queen, to ascend the chair or throne offered her ; 
 and as she reached the proper altitude, by the aid 
 of a footstool on the chair, she shook her curls, and 
 glanced smilingly round, and then sat, serious
 
 AFTER HER DAy's WORK PIIGEBE ENJOYS SUPPER. 183 
 
 and demure, prepared for whatever else was to 
 happen. 
 
 Susan was so engrossed by her child and its 
 appearance, and by the general murmur of admira- 
 tion which her beauty and the unexpected apparition 
 of so elegantly-dressed a little creature excited, that 
 she scarcely noticed the cameo which Stephen, in 
 obedience to a signal from his wife, had pushed 
 towards her hand. But when he again pushed it, 
 and she felt the touch, she looked, and took it up, 
 with a glance at Phoebe, as if to know why her 
 cameo was lying there on the table. 
 
 ' Like it, Mrs. Beck ? ' inquired Phoebe. 
 
 ' Yes, very well,' answered Susan, carelessly, for 
 she remembered how she had tried to get that brooch 
 presented to her on a former occasion ; and she 
 thought Phoebe might have had more sense than to 
 parade her wealth now. 
 
 ' But look at it again — is it valuable ? ' inquired 
 Phoebe. 
 
 ' Yes, very, I should say,' was Susan's re- 
 sponse, and uttered with more animation than 
 before ; for she became aware that something was
 
 184 GUY WATERHAN. 
 
 going on, and that she ought not to offend her 
 hostess. 
 
 ' Well, then,' said Phoebe, rising, and with a cer- 
 tain grace and dignity that showed she liked giving, 
 and had a spark of the grand old spirit of generosity 
 in her — * well then, Susan, while I beg to thank you 
 for your kindness and attention to Stephen in my 
 absence, I hope you'll accept that brooch, and wear 
 it for my sake in remembrance.' 
 
 For once Susan was almost overpowered. Phoebe 
 had done the thing so unexpectedly and so hand- 
 somely that she didn't know what to make of it. 
 
 The child clapped her hands loudly, and called 
 out — 
 
 * Oh, let me see — let me see ! When I'm bigorer 
 you'll let me wear it, won't you ? ' 
 
 The mother at once fastened it upon the little 
 thing's breast, and, as soon as she had done so, 
 turned to Phoebe and said — 
 
 * Pm sure you won't think I value it less because 
 I put it here to-night. Perhaps, Phoebe, after all, 
 it may return to the family.' 
 
 The hit was well-timed, and told immensely upon
 
 AFTER HER DAy's WORK PHCEBE ENJOYS SUPPER. 185 
 
 the listeners, and caused everyone to glance towards 
 the cradle — everyone, at least, but Phoebe, who 
 gave a faint laugh of acknowledgment, and then, 
 without another word, plunged into the savoury 
 depths of the rabbit-pie, and began to evoke from its 
 bottom tender pieces of rumpsteak, and little square 
 lumps of bacon, to add to the already rich plateful 
 destined for the hungry Joshua. 
 
 And then the supper began in right-down earnest. 
 No more talking now, no more ceremony. Phoebe 
 herself set the example, and kindled her husband 
 into a state of temporary forgetfulness of the cost, 
 while she and he continued to replenish the failing 
 plates of the guests, until at last even the big carrier 
 was constrained to cry for mercy, and say he really 
 could eat no more. 
 
 But the meat over, Phoebe opened upon the jaded 
 supper-eaters with new batteries. Delicious red and 
 black currant puddings, and mince roley-poleys, ad- 
 mitted of no parley. And when these had been 
 discussed, and followed by cream- cheese and old 
 double Gloucester, and the cheese again by a cleared 
 table, and by a brilliant display of decanters seve-
 
 186 GUY WATERMAN. 
 
 rally labelled rum, gin, and brandy, and by a large 
 array of tumblers, and hot water, and lemons, the 
 general feeling burst out with unanimous consent in 
 the explodmg voice of the carrier, — 
 
 * Well, I must say, Mr. and Mrs. Waterman, and 
 I say for every one of us — ' 
 
 ' Ay, ay, every one on us,' echoed Joseph Darkley, 
 while hands began to clap, and feet to kick against 
 the floor. 
 
 * I must say, for everyone of us,' repeated the 
 carrier, ' that I never had a better supper in my life ; 
 and I beg to drink your good health, both of you, 
 and of your little chap ; and may he grow up to be 
 a credit to the name of — ' Here the orator paused, 
 and wiped his forehead, trying to remember if he 
 had yet heard the name. 
 
 ' Guy Waterman,' interposed Phop.be. 
 
 ' Guy ! — Guy ! W^hy, that's one of the names in 
 the squire's family ! ' 
 
 ' It was he who gave it,' announced Phoebe proudly, 
 and for the first time in public. 
 
 * Indeed ! ' The carrier looked hard at Phcebe, 
 and then at Stephen, as though some queer thought
 
 AFTER HER DAY's WORK PHCEBE ENJOYS SUPPER. 187 
 
 had passed through his mind ; but he had the grace 
 to keep it to himself. MVell, then, here's to the 
 health of Guy Waterman, as well as to his respected 
 parents.' 
 
 Of course the proposition was enthusiastically re- 
 ceived. Again and again the glasses rattled with 
 vigorous thumps upon the table. And while gra- 
 dually the excitement calmed down, and while the 
 people all round tasted the mixed spirit-and-water 
 to see if they had got it right, and, on being satisfied, 
 said — 
 
 * Your health, Mr. Waterman ; your health, Mrs. 
 Waterman ; your health, Mr. Guy Waterman ; ' 
 the last being esteemed a capital joke, the little girl 
 suddenly called out in her clear, shrill, piercing 
 voice — 
 
 'Me too! Me too!' 
 
 * You, pussy ? ' said the admiring mother. 
 
 * Yes ; don't you know he's to be my husband ? 
 — that is, if I like him,' — said she archly, and look- 
 ing round upon the company. 
 
 This produced a general roar, and ended in the 
 little lady's health being also drunk, though, as
 
 188 GUY WATERMAN. 
 
 Phoebe observed, it wouldn't do to couple the chil- 
 dren together as future man and wife, seeing that 
 Miss Susy herself had not yet made up her mind. 
 
 And so the supper went on. 
 
 Phoebe did not wait to see the last of her guests, 
 but, leaving them to the care of Stephen on the 
 natural plea of fatigue, and the desire to get her 
 baby to bed, wished them all good-night, kissed 
 Susanna affectionately, and disappeared with her 
 boy. 
 
 Let us follow her for a brief space to her bedroom : 
 it is the last time we shall see her for some years. 
 
 She puts the boy to rest in a little crib beside the 
 bed where she and Stephen sleep. At first she 
 seems so thoroughly tired and exhausted, that she 
 can only just manage to bend her thoughts upon her 
 duties to the child. She goes about these in a quiet, 
 methodical manner ; and one might think, from her 
 listless demeanour, that neither past nor future is 
 to her of more than its ordinary importance to us 
 all. But she is simply getting rid of the strain that 
 has so long prayed upon her faculties and bowed 
 her down. This solitude is precious to her — and
 
 AFTER HER DAy's WORK PHCEBE ENJOYS SUPPER. 189 
 
 yet painful. It is her first moment of real rest ; of 
 actual feeling that henceforth she can rest that she 
 has yet had since her eventful determination. But 
 when the babe is asleep she rises and begins to 
 stretch her arms and to walk about the room and to 
 look about her, as though conscious of the removal 
 of a burden, yet as if afraid of giving way to too 
 vivid an expression of the relief. But as she runs 
 over all the incidents of the day — her meeting with 
 Mr. Dalrymple, and its entirely successful nature : 
 her visit to her own true child in the chancel vault, 
 and the melancholy satisfaction she thus finally 
 had ; her safe deposit of the packet that alone 
 contains the evidence of her guilt; her struggle 
 with and conquest over Mrs. Beck ; and, lastly, her 
 reception by her neighbours, and the general accep- 
 tation of her story as one, not only true in itself, but 
 as giving her fresh claims to the respect and sym- 
 pathy of the whole place ; — as she reviews all 
 these things her eye kindles with more and more 
 joyous light, and at last her emotion breaks out into 
 utterances, not loud, but conveying by their tone the 
 exultation of spirit from which they spring —
 
 190 GUY WATERMAN. 
 
 ' Safe now ! I have deceived them all. The 
 boy is mine. No one can now ever find out the 
 truth unless it suits me to tell it. Don't they say, 
 " No crime ever succeeds ? " Well, then, 1 have 
 succeeded : and so — it is no crime.' 
 
 Phoebe laughed at her own logic, went to the 
 babe, kissed it, again laughed, as some inward fancy 
 tickled her, and then began slowly to undress, paus- 
 ing, however, to open the door to listen for a 
 moment if the guests were all gone. She heard, 
 she thought, Stephen and Mrs. Beck talking together 
 confidentially at the door ; but she laughed for the 
 third time, and repeated the words as she closed the 
 door — 
 
 ' Safe now — and for ever ! But what does that 
 woman mean by keeping on so about the two chil- 
 dren ? I wish 1 knew. She never thought of such 
 a thing before 1 went away. I almost wish now I 
 had the packet, somewhere here, under my own eye. 
 Yes, a nice plan that would be ! I should want to 
 be always looking at it to see if it were safe, and 
 some day should find Mrs. Beck looking over my 
 shoulder.
 
 AFTER HER DAy's WORK PIICEBE ENJOYS SUPPER. 191 
 
 * Why can she be so suddenly smitten with the 
 idea of our two children one day being man and 
 wife ? Oh, I know — to be sure. What a fool I 
 was ! It's the gold watch and the hundred pounds, 
 and the squire's favour, that she sees will be given 
 to Guy. I'm glad I thought of that. Now I shall 
 sleep ; ay, now I shall be able to live, and to enjoy 
 myself, and take care of my boy — my own darling 
 — my beautiful fellow — my sweet Guy Waterman ! ' 
 She repeated the name lovingly, again and again, as 
 though the sound were a pleasure to her, and so 
 proceeded to undress.
 
 CHAPTER XVII. 
 
 Nine years have passed away ; but before we note 
 the changes these years have wrought let us consider 
 an event that is just now going on. From the house 
 adjoining to that of the ^Yatermans, there comes a 
 sound that no one has ever before heard coming 
 /^through its doors and windows since Susan Beck 
 took up her residence there. It is the low, conti- 
 nuous wail of a woman suffering either from mental 
 or bodily anguish, though it suggests chiefly the 
 latter- Let us look in upon her, where she lies upon 
 the bed, and whence she will never again raise her- 
 self, nor be raised until it is to place her in the 
 coffin that will be set on the adjacent chairs. 
 
 It is Mrs. Beck arriving at the last of her many 
 plans — that of cheating Death out of a promised 
 victim, and finding that she cannot by any art or
 
 Susanna's legacy. 193 
 
 device achieve her aim. And so the courage, such 
 as it is, that never before gave way, fails at last ; 
 and she moans feebly, hour after hour, the whole 
 day through ; often asking for the doctor, but per- 
 fectly well aware he has uttered the irrevocable 
 word ; and that he only now visits her, and gives 
 her medicine, in decent regard to her feelings 
 and the usages of his profession. She has often 
 talked with him, has often smiled about this very 
 matter when other poor creatures' lives were con- 
 cerned. 
 
 She is not alone, for Susannah is there now, look- 
 
 V 
 
 ing almost a woman ; tall, elegantly formed, but 
 slender, as though not yet fully grown. She is quiet 
 and attentive, and speaks to the dying mother as 
 though not only conscious of the impending calamity, 
 but as believing the patient must herself be quite 
 desirous to keep it always in view. Between, 
 therefore, the pauses of her occupation — that of 
 trimming a very pretty summer hat — she asks Mrs. 
 Beck, in a tone of sustained condolement, that might 
 be touching were it not a little monotonous, about 
 her wishes, and what there will be for her Susanna 
 
 VOL. I.
 
 194 GUY WATEBMAN. 
 
 to do ; and there are times even when she wipes 
 away a tear from her face. 
 
 Mrs. Beck looks at her, and occasionally stops in 
 the wail to cry impatiently — 
 
 ' Do, Susy, do put that down ! ' 
 
 And Susy does so for a little time ; but after a 
 few minutes Mrs. Beck is sure to see her with it 
 again, and the spectacle seems to wound and rankle 
 in her heart. 
 
 ' I've a good mind, you worthless hussy, to die 
 and say nothing about what I know.' And Mrs. 
 Beck, turning her face to the wall, began again her 
 sad, depressing wail. But the words she had uttered 
 wonderfully quickened the zeal and filial ten- 
 derness of the bonnet-smitten Susanna. She stole 
 round to the bottom of the bed and tried to catch 
 her mother's look ; but Mrs. Beck took no notice 
 of her, and only threw up one arm in a kind of 
 despairing gesture towards heaven. 
 
 Baffled here, Susanna went back, got on to the 
 bed, and crept to her mother ; then lifting one arm, 
 she managed to nestle her head under it. No doubt 
 a pretty and touching movement, and even Susau
 
 Susanna's legacy. 195 
 
 Beck was not indifferent to it, for she burst into 
 a fit of weeping, the first she had known for many 
 a huig year, and she clasped the girl's head with 
 such convulsive energy that the latter cried out, 
 
 ' Oh, mother, you hurt me ! ' 
 
 But Susanna had obtained her end, as she found 
 after lying there quietly for about half-an-hour. 
 Mrs. Beck then turned round and began to talk. 
 She did it so feebly, and yet with such earnestness 
 in her look and voice that Susanna began dimly to 
 understand, and to tremble for that which was 
 approaching near. 
 
 ' Don't cry, mother, don't, and I won't touch the 
 bonnet again till — ' Susanna gulped the last word 
 down her throat under cover of a cough, as she re- 
 membered the impropriety of what she had been 
 going to say. 
 
 ' Susanna, dear ! ' 
 
 * Yes, mother.' 
 
 'Take my keys. You'll find some money in a 
 
 little box in a secret drawer at the back of the great 
 
 drawer in the big chest.' Susanna pricked up her 
 
 ears at this, and thought how often, when her mother 
 
 o2
 
 196 GUY WATERMAN. 
 
 had refused her money, she had searched in vain for 
 that very hoard. 
 
 * And, Susanna, dear ! ' 
 
 * Yes, mother.' 
 
 * You'll find a book in the drawer with the 
 money. It's a savings-bank book ; and mind you 
 don't draw the money out till you want it for ?ome 
 very important purpose indeed. You won't, will 
 you?' 
 
 * O no, not till I'm married.' 
 
 ' Yes, that's right,' feebly sighed the mother, as 
 she felt her strength going. But presently she 
 said, rather sharply, * If you're the girl I take you 
 for, you'll keep that unknown to your husband, and 
 so have something to go to when you can't get help 
 from him.' 
 
 * Yes, yes,' said Susan, with sparkling eyes, 
 ' that's much better. Nuio you may be sure, 
 mother, I'll keep my word, and won't touch the 
 money till I'm a woman and married.' 
 
 ' And Susy, dear ! ' 
 
 * Yes, mother,' sighed Susy, with increased and 
 increasing respect as she wondered how many more
 
 Susanna's legacy. 197 
 
 of these communications were to follow, and tried to 
 repress her very natural excitement. 
 
 * I didn't like anybody to know how much I had, 
 and so I used to take money every year to a broker 
 in London, and he laid it out for me ; and you'll 
 find a paper from him in the drawer showing how 
 much he has had of mine to invest ; and I think, 
 altogether, Susy, there's nigh a thousand pounds 
 you'll be worth.' 
 
 ' A thousand pounds, mother ! ' and Susanna's eyes 
 opened as widely as if she had been told she was 
 the heiress to a million ; for, although at her early 
 age she had arrived at excellent notions of the value 
 of money in detail, she had had no experience, 
 mental or other, to enable her to appreciate it in 
 the gross. Practically, a thousand pounds was 
 about the limit of her working, every -day imagi- 
 nation in financial matters. No doubt she will im- 
 prove in that point by-and-by. 
 
 * A thousand pounds, mother ! ' she re-echoed, in 
 undisguised wonder. 
 
 ' Ay, Susy, dear, it's a deal of money, ain't it ? 
 I thought to have enjoyed it with you a bit after this
 
 198 GUY WATEEMAN. 
 
 period o' my life, and I've worked hard and done 
 things for it I don't like to think on now.' 
 
 ' Then don't, mother dear,' logically and kindly 
 sujjojested Susanna. 
 
 CO 
 
 * Ay, but I must think of 'em. I'm dying, I 
 know that ; and how do I know where I'm going to, 
 or what'll become of me by this time to-morrow ? ' 
 almost screamed the miserable woman. 
 
 ' Well, but mother dear, hasn't the parson been 
 and settled that for you ? I'm sure he talked 
 with you long enough, and prayed long enough.' 
 
 'Ah, child, you don't understand these things. 
 I begin to wish you did. Susy, come here.' This 
 was said with an air of solemnity that startled 
 Susanna ; who came and bent her head down in 
 obedience to the pressure of her mother's hand. 
 
 * Promise me, Susy, to be a good girl, and go to 
 church regularly, and have no lovers but honest 
 and responsible men who can give you a good 
 home.' 
 
 ' Oh, I do promise, mother, and I'll take care of 
 myself till I find somebody else to take care of 
 me ; and then, you know, I needn't.'
 
 Susanna's legacy. 199 
 
 Perhaps this was not the exact kind of answer 
 Susan Beck had required or hoped for. She looked 
 at her daughter as if wanting to say something 
 else, and yet as if loth to give up the last secret in 
 her possession — the one that she had thought more 
 about than all the others put together. But the 
 danger of protracting the disclosure till she could 
 no longer make it weighed with her ; and so, 
 with a heavy sigh, she prepared to disburden 
 herself. 
 
 ' Susy, darling ! ' 
 
 * Yes, mother.' 
 
 * You like Guy ? ' 
 
 * Yes, till I find somebody I may like better.' 
 
 * What would you say if he were a gentleman's 
 son ? ' 
 
 * A gentleman's son ! ' repeated Susanna, in great 
 surprise. 
 
 * And heir to large estates ? ' 
 
 Susanna waited to hear no more. With the 
 rapidity of lightning her thoughts ran over all she 
 had heard at different times about Guy's story, and 
 the death of the other child ; and she saw at once
 
 200 GUY WATERMAN. 
 
 the goal toward which her mother was pointing. 
 She said, almost in a tremble, 
 
 * Mother, dear, you wouldn't say so, would you, 
 if it were all nonsense ? But how do you know it's 
 true ? ' 
 
 ' I don't know,' murmured the dying woman. 
 ' That's my greatest grief and trouble. But I 
 believe it, and I have believed it ever since I saw 
 Mrs. Waterman's face and manner that day at the 
 funeral, when she returned.' 
 
 'Yes, mother dear — quick — speak ! But what 
 do you know? Oh, for God's sake, don't die 
 until—' 
 
 A violent cough, that threatened to carry off the 
 afflicted woman before it ceased, delayed for a long 
 time the explanation that she was wanting to make, 
 and that Susanna was panting to hear. At last 
 Mrs. Beck was just able to whisper above her 
 breath, 
 
 * The workshop — ' 
 'Stephen's?' 
 
 ' Yes. If I'm right the proofs there ; for she 
 haunts that place, and I've never been able to get
 
 Susanna's legacy. 201 
 
 into it alone for above a minute or two. But if it*s 
 there — ' 
 
 ' I'll find it, mother, dear — trust me ! ' inter- 
 rupted Susanna. 
 
 * And Susy, dear ! ' 
 ' Yes, mother.' 
 
 ' Don't forget that if you want to get over people 
 and make them care for you, you must now and then 
 seem to care a bit for them. You know what I 
 mean. That's your fault, Susy. I speak for your 
 good.' 
 
 Susy was not fond of reproof, but this one seemed 
 to strike her as sensible and worth bearing in mind. 
 So she replied with unusual submissiveness, 
 
 * Yes, mother, I'll mind ; oh, I will, indeed.' 
 'And if you come to be the Lady of Bran- 
 
 hape, don't forget it was I — ' 
 
 Again she was interrupted by the cough, which 
 rapidly turned into convulsions ; and when a neigh- 
 bour, Phffibe Waterman, came in a little while 
 afterwards with some jelly for the sick patient, she 
 saw Mrs. Beck lying still and stark, looking up 
 towards the heaven she had never till recently
 
 202 GUY WATERMAN. 
 
 thought about, and bearing on her face the aspect 
 of a more terrible mystery and secret than any she 
 had ever intentionally cherished in her bosom. 
 
 Had Phoebe not been too much engrossed with 
 the dread sight before her, which called forth all her 
 womanly sympathies, she would probably have no- 
 ticed how Susanna was occupied before that young 
 lady herself would have been aware of an observer. 
 She was deeply engrossed in examining the trea- 
 sures of the box in the secret drawer. But Phoebe's 
 exclamations of distress warned her in time ; and so 
 she slid the drawer noiselessly back, and shut down 
 the lid of the chest, and then dropped on a chair, 
 and resigned herself once more to the grief that 
 she had really experienced for a few minutes after 
 her mother's death ; until, indeed, the alluring 
 vision of the box had disturbed the even balance of 
 her mind between the sense of filial duty and the 
 sense of rew and unrestrained personal freedom. 
 
 Phoebe drew the blinds down over the little dia- 
 mond-paned windows to shut out the vivid summer 
 sunshine which was bathing with unseemly brilliancy 
 the death-bed of Susan Beck, revealing the many
 
 Susanna's legacy. 203 
 
 lines that petty anxieties, selfi.sh cunning, and secre- 
 tive habits, bad left upon her face ; wiiile penetrat- 
 ing cruelly those glassy grey eyes, now powerless to 
 meet and throw it off with their cold gleam, as of 
 old they were wont to meet and throw off the sun- 
 shine. So Phoebe, with some difficulty, closed the 
 eyes, and drew down the blinds. 
 
 One, however, of those sunbeams which had been 
 prying about Susan Beck as if to find and gloat 
 over in the deserted tenement every token of the 
 sinful inmate which had just departed — one of these 
 sunbeams remained and, as it lay across the room, 
 took in the head of Susanna. She sat on a high 
 three-legged stool beside the bed, stuffing the cor- 
 ner of her scarlet-braided apron first in one eye 
 and then another. Phoebe watched her, and won- 
 dered within herself that she had never before 
 noticed, as she did now, the girl's exceeding beauty. 
 She was but thirteen years of age, but might have 
 been, and, indeed, invariably was by strangers, 
 taken for several years older. This was partly on 
 account of her height, for she was already taller 
 than her mother; but, more especially, for the air
 
 204 
 
 GUY WATEEiTAN. 
 
 of perfect self-control she always displayed. A 
 dress of pale blue set off the dazzling fairness of 
 her complexion and long curling hair, and gave her 
 an almost aerial appearance. 
 
 Moved by her beauty, but more perhaps by the 
 unwonted presence of a tear on her cheek, Phcebe 
 could not help going to the orphan girl and folding 
 her for a moment in her arms ; and at that instant 
 there rankled in a corner of her heart, yet true to 
 the unlawful little inmate of the great Dalrymple 
 tomb, a bitter pang, as she thought how much richer 
 than she was Susan Beck in having a child of her 
 own, her very own, to weep her loss. 
 
 While Phoebe was strokins; Susanna's liirht hair, 
 and feeling for the first time in her life her warm, 
 loving heart completely turned towards the 
 orphaned girl, there came a knock at the door. 
 
 It was Stephen Waterman, who had been home 
 for his lunch, and found the house deserted. Phoebe 
 hastily made known to him the news of Susan's 
 death, and despatched him for certain neighbours 
 who had been intimate with her. When she had 
 closed the door after him and turned round, she
 
 Susanna's legacy. 205 
 
 found Susanna had thrown herself across the bed in 
 a fresh burst of grief. 
 
 * Come, Susy,' she said, comfortingly, * don't give 
 way, there's a dear. Come home with me! Come, 
 get a few things together, and leave me and the 
 neighbours to set all to rights, and do what's got to 
 be done.' 
 
 Susanna rose with great meekness, and, still hold- 
 ing her apron to one eye, proceeded to follow 
 Phoebe's directions. She had hardly turned away 
 from the bed before Phoebe noticed that the little 
 gold earrings which Susan always wore, and which 
 she had seen in her ears when she turned to open 
 the door, had disappeared. The wedding-ring, also, 
 was missing from her finger. 
 
 * Susanna ! ' she cried out in astonishment, ' have 
 you taken your mother's ring and earrings off? ' 
 
 * Yes,' whined Susanna, with her apron to her 
 eye ; ' she's worn 'em ever since I can remember, 
 and ril never part with 'em, never, nor let anybody 
 else touch 'em. She told me to wear the earrings 
 for her sake, and so — so — I will.' 
 
 Phoebe w^as satisfied with this explanation, for the
 
 206 GUY WATERMAN. 
 
 brief time at least that she had to consider it, for 
 the next minute Mrs. Darkley and the carrier's wife 
 arrived with several neighbours, and immediately 
 got round her, questioning and listening to her 
 with long faces and uplifted hands. Susanna, after 
 receiving some neighbourly condolence from ail, 
 continued to follow Phoebe's instructions about get- 
 ting a few necessaries together, preparatory to 
 leaving the cottage. 
 
 Her blue eyes grew larger with a kind of cold 
 excitement as she unlocked drawer after drawer of 
 her mother's hidden miscellaneous treasures. She 
 had been brought up from babyhood with an intense 
 love of finery ; but Susan Beck was too sensible a 
 woman to indulge even while she fostered it, and so 
 had taken care to conceal from her daughter the 
 innumerable presents and perquisites she was con- 
 stantly receiving in her vocation of nurse. Susanna 
 was, however, allowed from time to time a glimpse 
 of the treasures that were some day to be her 
 own, — a glimpse which would raise Susanna in her 
 dreams to sucli a giddy height that she felt her 
 feet were too good to touch the earth, and
 
 Susanna's legacy. 207 
 
 became mad for possession. And now, under the 
 pretence of collecting a few of her own clothes, 
 she could not resist the temptation of looking 
 at and feeling sundry long-coveted trinkets, and 
 opening and examining hurriedly mysterious paper 
 parcels and tiny-boxes. It was indeed a strange 
 assortment of things hoarded away in those old oak 
 drawers ; and to Susanna it seemed a hoard of 
 fabulous wealth. She rummaged about with quick, 
 trembling fingers, lighting in succession on a piece 
 of soiled brocade, a little vial of amber-coloured 
 liquid, a spoon-handle of chased silver, a pair of 
 white satin slippers wrapped in a velvet bodice, a 
 baby's coral necklace, a roll of old prints, an odd 
 silk stocking, a piece of old yellow linen of the 
 finest quality, a strip of moth-eaten ermine, a torn 
 v:dentine with a sickly perfume clinging about it 
 like the ghost of the love and hope it might once 
 liave carried, a bridal wreath of faded artificial 
 flowers, a snuflT-box without a lid full of differently 
 coloured beads, a powder-puff, a watch, a box of 
 rouge — indeed, Susanna felt that to make a mental 
 inventory of all the contents of those drawers would
 
 208 GUY WATERMAN. 
 
 take her more days than she now had minutes ; and, 
 besides, Phcpbe began to hurry her, for Stephen was 
 waiting. So Susanna drew together the things she 
 needed, made up her bundle and went away with 
 Phoebe to her new home.
 
 CHAPTER XVIII. 
 
 PHCEBES PERPLEXITIES. 
 
 And is this really Phoebe, the woman who nine years 
 ago looked so light-hearted and young, had black 
 glossy hair, an elastic step, a bright beaming eye, a 
 cheerful confident voice, and seemed so strong and 
 self-reliant that no trouble could touch her, except 
 for the passing moment ? But now she seems to be 
 getting positively old : her hair is turning gi'ey, she 
 stoops and hesitates as she walks, her eye is dim, 
 her voice low and fitful, and she appears to live and 
 move under the perpetual weight of some secret 
 and irremovable burden. Ah, yes, Phoebe has suc- 
 ceeded in her aim, and this is how she enjoys her 
 success. 
 
 The boy is hers, has remained hers unchallenged 
 by anyone ; even Mrs. Beck of late had seemed to 
 liave forgotten her early suspicion, if, indeed, siic 
 
 VOL. I.
 
 210 GUY WATERMAN. 
 
 liad ever really thought Phoebe capable of ven- 
 turing on so bold a scheme. And Phcebe loves the 
 hoy more and more dearly ; yes, far better than she 
 loved the babe, because more appreciatingly. In 
 that respect years have left her essentially un- 
 changed. But in all else she is but the wreck of 
 what site was. She has lost all that smartness of })er- 
 Hon in dress, all that eager activity in mind, all that 
 play of light and shade on her face springing from 
 the vividness of her sensations that formerly charac- 
 terized her. Nothing now seems to interest her, 
 except the doings of Guy ; and the thoughts he 
 calls forth seem to be those of ceaseless depression. 
 
 She has had him well educated, and in the doing 
 this has already expended the money given to her 
 for that purpose by Mrs. Dalrymple. She knows 
 not how to continue the work so well begun_, for her 
 husband, poor fellow, shares in her depression of 
 spirit, and sinks year by year into still greater hope- 
 lessness of extrication. And, when Phoebe further 
 asks herself how she is to give Guy anything like a 
 fair start in life, she shrinks back in alarm, dread- 
 ing to encounter the reproaches of her own con-
 
 phcebe's perplexities. 211 
 
 science. Nor is that her only trouble. She had 
 fancied that a deep and sincere religious motive 
 had originally swayed her when she took her very 
 serious step with regard to Guy ; but now, at the 
 close of nine years, she finds, on looking back, 
 that she has not practically tried one single thing 
 calculated to train the boy up as a Catholic ; and 
 that her very laxity proves how much she must 
 have deceived herself. It is true that she has 
 been placed in difficult circumstances for the pro- 
 motion of her own and her mistress's aim. There 
 was no Catholic congregation within many miles of 
 the place ; but, then, Phoebe knew well enough that 
 she could, if she had chosen, have easily kept up 
 some kind of spiritual communion with the Church 
 in which she had been born. And she had intended 
 to do so, but there was a great barrier — Phoebe 
 dared not face the confessional. She could not lie 
 there ; and she was quite certain that if she told 
 the truth no honest priest would allow her any 
 longer to retain the boy, or keep him in ignorance 
 of his rights. That there were men in holy orders 
 
 Jesuitical enough to be willing to condone the wrong 
 
 p 2
 
 212 GUY WATEEMAN. 
 
 for a time, in the hope of eventually profiting by 
 the aid of a Catholic gentleman whom the Church 
 should, have helped to restore to his estates, might 
 be true : but Phoebe's instincts not only rebelled 
 against that solution of the matter, but, as year 
 after year passed on, and her own religious faith 
 grew dim, and as she saw more and more vividly 
 the chances of some ultimate reunion of the 
 squire and his son, she found it only too easy 
 to let alone the question of Guy's religious 
 culture, and to persuade herself it was best to leave 
 it with Guy himself and with God. Phoebe saw 
 the inconsistency of all this, and it troubled her ; 
 but for all that she found it practically impossible 
 to do anything but submit and suffer. 
 
 And it is not unworthy of comment the difference 
 in this respect between Phoebe and her mistress. 
 The latter would never have erred by giving way to 
 her womanly love ; she did err by giving way to an 
 over-excited religious feeling. But, then, if she had 
 carried her first purpose into effect she would have 
 devoted herself, heart and soul, to the boy's spiritual 
 training ; she would never have had a moment's
 
 phcebe's perplexities. 213 
 
 peace while she could fear she had been remiss in 
 that point, or failed to compensate to the boy in that 
 way for the worldly injury done to him. She was, in a 
 word, good, loving, moral, pious, but had allowed the 
 balance of her powers to be overthrown by excess of 
 zeal for her Church, and so had done things that 
 were opposed to her whole nature. But Phoebe, 
 who was not good, nor moral, nor pious, though with 
 many powerful but irregular impulses urging her to 
 be all these, was loving, but had allowed her love 
 to run loose and to exist without any kind of proper 
 control. And thus love was to her the same source 
 of evil-doing that a too fervid religious feeling had 
 been to her mistress. 
 
 The death of Mrs. Beck brought forth all these 
 inward troubles, so habitual with Phoebe, into greater 
 strength. First, because the death itself inex- 
 pressibly shocked her. Susan Beck was exactly 
 that one woman in the whole parish of whom till 
 very lately Phoebe would have said, if she had been 
 invited to speak, * She'll be sure to live to a great 
 age. Why, she's hardly ever been ill.' Secondly, 
 it seemed to remind Phoebe with a most painful
 
 214 GUY WATERMAN. 
 
 particularity that she, too, was mortal ; and might 
 any day contract such a disease and go oflp in a week. 
 
 But there were other considerations of no slight 
 importance raised by the event. Susan Beck had 
 made Stephen one of the executors to Susanna — 
 the other being the carrier, who was well known 
 as a careful and well-to-do business man, who never 
 allowed a sixpence to pass through his fingers either 
 of his own or other people's money without knowing 
 a very good reason why. And in thus putting 
 Stephen into trust, Mrs. Beck had candidly 
 explained to Phoebe her object. She had said to 
 the latter, 
 
 * I want you to take my girl into your house and 
 to be a guardian to her ; and, in fact, to do for her 
 what Stephen will be supposed to do.' How could 
 Phoebe refuse such an application ? Of course she 
 had at once and warmly assented. 
 
 Well, Susanna was now in their house, and was 
 to live with them ; and she and Guy would be 
 thrown very much together. She was already the 
 talk of the village as the most attractive girl in it, 
 though, oddly enough, no one ever seemed to speak
 
 phcebe's perplexities. 215 
 
 of any other good quality. PhoBbe could not foi-get 
 the remarks that Susan had so often dropped about 
 the future of the two children. Had she, then, any 
 strong objection to the project ? Undoubtedly she 
 had. It seemed to throw a new barrier in the path 
 towards that ultimate goal of universal peace and 
 contentment that Phcebe was still weak enough to 
 dream of. She knew that, if ever the day of Guy's 
 recognition came, her own position threatened quite 
 difficulty enough for him and his father, without 
 adding the fact of a humbly-born wife. And, lastly, 
 Phoebe had never been able to entirely get rid of 
 the fear that Mrs. Beck had got some inkling of 
 the truth about Guy's birth, and had therefore done 
 her best to suggest beforehand a marriage between 
 him and Susanna. This very thought of itself gave 
 increased force to Phcebe's dislike of the idea. But 
 what was she now to do ? 
 
 She determined, after a great deal of cogitation, 
 upon a visit to the squire. While waiting for an 
 opportunity a very curious thing happened soon 
 after Susanna's removal to the house of the Water- 
 mans. Whether it was that she was moved by the
 
 216 GUY WATERMAN. 
 
 sight of Stephen's plodding industry into a kind of 
 wish to imitate him, and thought she ought to learn 
 from him the best way to set to work, or whether it 
 was through some sudden and not unnatural change 
 in her character after her mother's death, which 
 caused Stephen also to get the benefit of her 
 amiability, certain it is that Susanna began to be 
 very fond of hovering about her ' guardian,' accom- 
 panying him to the workshop, standing at the door 
 looking in upon him while he worked, sometimes 
 venturing inside (which Stephen rather disliked as 
 it interfered with his movements) ; talking to him 
 about his affairs, about joinery, about tools, about 
 timber, and especially about the workshop, which 
 grew quite attractive to her as the conversation 
 progressed. 
 
 Bat though Stephen liked this, and felt himself 
 suddenly elevated into a new and very pleasant kind 
 of importance, Phoebe did not; and she more than 
 once interrupted the chat by calling Susanna to 
 the house and employing her in matters that the 
 young lady thought in her secret soul had been 
 carefully invented for the occasion. But while
 
 phcebe's perplexities. 217 
 
 Susanna graciously obeyed Phoebe's every command, 
 and kept most careful watch over the fierce malig- 
 nant glances that she knew were struggling to dart 
 forth from her eyes, she always quietly got back to 
 Stephen as soon as she could invent any kind of 
 excuse. 
 
 Phoebe grew perplexed and troubled as she 
 noticed this. What did it mean ? Had Mrs. Beck, 
 on her death-bed, left to her daughter the knowledge 
 of Phoebe's ' secret ? ' But how knowledge ? 
 What could Susan Beck have known ? Was it, 
 then, merely a suspicion, — but one retained so 
 tenaciously that not even the lapse of nine years 
 caused Mrs. Beck to relax her hold of it ? And 
 wiien she could no longer keep watch over it, had 
 she handed the cherished thought to her daughter, 
 that she might track it with renewed zeal under 
 more favourable opportunities, and make her profit 
 out of it ? 
 
 Of course, the mere dread of such a calamity 
 paralyzed, for a time, Phoebe's inclination to inter- 
 fere with Susanna's movements. If that young lady 
 only suspected, she might soon grow tired of her
 
 218 GUY WATERMAN. 
 
 quest, if nothing occurred to stimulate it. It was 
 not likely that a girl of thirteen could do as Mrs. 
 Beck had apparently done — keep the idea ever 
 brooding in her mind and yet allow no outward 
 manifestation of it to escape. Phoebe deter- 
 mined, therefore, to watch in silence for a little 
 time longer before venturing, either by word or 
 act, to risk confirming Susanna in any secret belief 
 that she might be entertaining. But Phcebe was 
 too impulsive to keep to her determination ; and 
 when, one day, Susanna, taking up a little work- 
 basket, said she thought she would like to sit by 
 Stephen in the workshop while she mended her 
 stockings, Phoebe burst out with — 
 
 ' You'll please to do nothing of the kind ; d'ye 
 think my time's to be always taken up with running 
 to and fro to fetch you ? I forbid you to go any 
 more to the workshop, except when I send you. 
 Now, you mind that ! I won't allow it ! Do you 
 hear me ? ' 
 
 ' Yes, please, Mrs. Waterman,* was all Susanna 
 replied. But this little bit of dialogue carried 
 Susanna's thoughts back to her mother's bedside,
 
 phcebe's perplexities. 219 
 
 and she could not help thinking what a clever 
 woman her mother was to have found out about the 
 workshop without ever seeing anything ; for now 
 Susanna felt sure lier mother was right. 
 
 ' When are you going to the squire's ? ' asked 
 Susanna, after a pause, 
 
 ' Don't know,' curtly answered Phoebe, who had 
 been intending to go that very afternoon, but felt 
 her intention die out as she thought of leaving 
 Susanna alone with Stephen and the workshop. 
 
 ' I thought I should like,' continued Susanna, 
 * to spend the afternoon and evening with Mrs. 
 Darkley, who has asked me to tea any day that I 
 like to go. But I know you wouldn't like me to be 
 away from home the same time as you. That's 
 why I asked if you were going to the squire's.' 
 
 Phoebe paused, and thought for a moment. 
 Presently she said — 
 
 * Oh ! I don't mind your being out when I know 
 where you are, and when I know Stephen doesn't 
 need one of us to stay at home ; so we'll both go. 
 Mind you don't be late. I shan't.' 
 
 * O no ! I'm so glad. I may go directly, then ? '
 
 220 GUY WATERMAN. 
 
 Phoebe waited to see her depart. But even when 
 she was gone she could not shake off the feeling of 
 vague alarm that possessed her. She went towards 
 the workshop. Stephen was there alone, hard at 
 work. Phoebe glanced at the spot where the 
 packet lay concealed; no hand had touched the 
 bricks, that was quite certain. They remained as 
 Phoebe herself had left them on that memorable 
 day. Foreseeing the importance of knowing 
 whether anyone ever discovered her hiding-place, 
 Phoebe had studied minutely every little feature of 
 the surface, and imprinted it so strongly on her 
 mind that she was quite sure that it would be im- 
 possible to remove either of the bricks without some 
 change that she would understand. But as she 
 looked now with intense anxiety, she quite satisfied 
 herself that no one had touched the spot. 
 
 Still she could not go away to fulfil her purposed 
 visit to the Hall. Some undefinable instinct seemed 
 to warn her to remain on the watch. So she 
 chatted with Stephen, went to the house, came 
 back again to fetch him to tea, hurried off alone 
 before tea was over to the workshop again, to find
 
 phcebe's perplexities. 221 
 
 it undisturbed by any inquisitive step, and so by 
 the time she had convinced herself it was too late 
 to go to the Hall, she had also convinced herself 
 she had very foolishly frightened herself about 
 Susanna. 
 
 Stephen did not work late that evening, but as 
 soon as it began to get dark he put down his tools, 
 pulled out his pipe and lighted it, and then sat for 
 a few minutes looking ri)und upon his domain and 
 upon his bit of work on the bench with a sigh that 
 seemed at once to express his trouble at his making 
 so little out of so nice a place, and to give him a 
 feeling of relief afterwards. When his pipe was 
 exhausted he — after having knocked out the ashes 
 on his bench — put it in his pocket, and went in to 
 supper. Susanna had not yet returned ; but 
 Phoebe knew her habits, and did not expect her for 
 an hour or two. And so they sat and talked over 
 their troubles ; and Stephen suggested, and in so 
 doing made Fhoobe's eyes blaze with the old fire, 
 that they should sell Guy's watch, the one that the 
 squire had given to him. 
 
 ' You know,' said Stephen, ' I wouldn't ha
 
 222 GUY WATERMAN. 
 
 thought on it if I know'd else what to do. Though 
 I never wore a gold watch myself, I'd be proud to 
 see Guy a-wearing one ; but victuals is hard to go 
 without, and I'm afeard we're a-coming to that.' 
 
 '^I'd 2:0 and work alon^ with them drabs at the 
 market-garden first — ay, and make him work too — 
 before I'd part with the squire's gift. All Guy's 
 good luck would go with it' 
 
 'Well, Phoebe, you wouldn't like to go on the 
 parish now, would you ? ' 
 
 Phoebe bade him, indignantly, hold his tongue, if 
 he'd got nothing more sensible to say ; but the talk 
 made her regret the delay of her visit to the Hall, 
 and thinking of that brought back the idea of the 
 workshop and of Susanna. She got up from the 
 supper-table with its hard scraps of bread, and its 
 musty scraps of meat that neither of them could 
 eat, and went out. What is that she sees ? Yes, 
 surely there is a gleam in the workshop. There is 
 some one inside. 
 
 ' Is it Susanna ? ' she asks herself.
 
 CHAPTER XIX. 
 
 A LIGHT IN THE WORKSHOP. 
 
 Susanna enjoyed the teacakes that Mrs. Darkley 
 set down before her with her usual zest, and she 
 was still more delighted with the marks of respect 
 towards the ' heiress ' that accompanied them ; for 
 the knowledge of Susanna's fortune had rapidly 
 made the tour of the place. Bat somehow, when 
 she had done justice to these delicacies, bodily and 
 mental, she began to fidget about the clock in a 
 manner that puzzled Mrs. Darkley, who knew that 
 she had had on more than one previous occasion to 
 give Susanna a hint that it was time to go, before 
 the idea of going was at all accepted by that young 
 lady. She sought to 'amuse her by getting Joshua 
 to teach her to play at draughts ; but Joshua soon 
 gave up the unprofitable attempt. At last Susanna 
 said, with one of her sweetest smiles,
 
 224. GUY WATERMAN. 
 
 'Mrs. Waterman asked me to be home early 
 this evening, so I think I'd better go.' 
 
 Mrs. Darkley made no further objection, though 
 she looked at her husband as though to say, 
 * What's she after now ? ' And he answered by 
 thrusting up his lower jaw contemptuously, in 
 signification that he had long learned to judge 
 women and girls as beings about whose motives it 
 was equally absurd and unprofitable to speculate. 
 
 But they were both touched by the girl's grace 
 and beauty, and by her deference to them, the last 
 quality having been so unusual with her previously ; 
 and they alike attributed it to a change in her 
 character, perhaps through the loss of her mother, 
 perhaps through her beginning to feel more 
 womanly. 
 
 But Susanna, with just one mocking laugh in 
 remembrance of them after she had quitted the 
 house, began to trip along gaily, breaking at times 
 almost into a run as she made her way homeward 
 through the fields and along the road. But as she 
 drew towards the house of the Watermans she 
 turned ofi* the road into a field, though it was now
 
 A LIGHT IN THE WORKSHOP. 225 
 
 SO dark that she could not see anything distinctly 
 far before her, nor be herself seen. Had Phoebe 
 witnessed that departure from the road she would 
 have known what it meant, for it was the precise 
 way that she herself had gone so many years before 
 to the workshop when she wanted to enter it unseen. 
 And Susanna did go direct to the workshop ; and 
 though she had no occasion to fear being watched 
 from the house, and therefore went to the front door, 
 it was with a certain guardedness of manner, imply- 
 ing a wish to be quite sure Stephen had gone away. 
 Satisfied on that point, she unfastened the door, which 
 was often left unlocked, and went in. Of course she 
 could see nothing clearly ; but she went feeling about 
 with a kind of catlike softness of step and accuracy 
 of feeling that kept her from hurting herself either 
 by contact with the bench or the old planks of timber 
 lying about, or with the tools that she came upon ; 
 though once she started as she touched the cold flat 
 steel of the blade or chisel which Stephen had taken 
 out of his plane to sharpen, and left it lying on the 
 bench. What could she be seeking ? She was not 
 
 so childish as to suppose she would make any disco- 
 VOL. I. Q
 
 226 GUY WATERMAN. 
 
 very that way ; but she knew what she was about. 
 After a long hunt in the dark, there was heard the 
 click — click — click of the flint-and-steel apparatus 
 which Stephen kept in the workshop in case he should 
 need a light. Either the tinder was bad, or the 
 hands were too impatient, for suddenly there was a 
 little cry of rage and pain, and then a pause, and 
 then a renewal of the click — click — click. Sparks 
 at last ; yes, and now a light, for Susanna has got 
 with her a bit of coloured wax taper, that she 
 found among her mother's stores, and which she had 
 put in her pocket, pleased with its colour, and pos- 
 sibly with some half notion it might be useful. Who 
 shall say how and when it had been used by her 
 mother? Or what mysterious influences derived from 
 that former time still hung about it and invested it 
 with attraction for the daughter whose character had 
 so much resemblance to Susan Beck's ? 
 
 Susanna, holding the taper aloft in her right 
 hand, began to peer about. She looked towards the 
 roof, but could see nothing distinctly till she got 
 upon the bench. Then she satisfied herself there 
 could be nothing concealed there. The tiles were
 
 A LIGHT IN THE WORKSHOP. 227 
 
 all perfectly regular, though broken and n)en(ied ; 
 but there was the beam which ran across. It was 
 just wide enough for something to be deposited on 
 the top. Susanna could reach its upper surface. 
 She passed her hand along it in spite of the thick 
 black dust that lay there until she had gone from 
 end to end. Then, with a gesture of vexation and a 
 look of spite that strangely deformed the fair girlish 
 features, she got down and began to look all over the 
 wall. She was soon aware that to do this thorouohly 
 would take more time than she could be sure of just 
 now ; and besides, she was but a girl, and she was 
 getting tired of her freak ; so she quitted the wall 
 and began to pore among the shavings and under 
 the bench, and behind the planks, her hands getting 
 every instant more and more foul, her eyes more 
 angry, and her gestures more fretful. She said to 
 herself, 
 
 ' I will find it if there is anything — that I will, if 
 I come a hundred times ! My mother was a clever 
 woman, and she knew she was right when she told 
 me.' 
 
 Just then, forgetting her caution in her fretfulness, 
 
 Q2
 
 228 GUY WATERMAN. 
 
 she put down the taper on the floor, turned to 
 look at something that had attracted her atten- 
 tion, swept with her dress some of the loose shav- 
 ings towards the light, and in an instant there was 
 a blaze. 
 
 Susanna screamed and thought her last hour had 
 come. And, doubtless, if she had really been alone, 
 she and the workshop would have perished together ; 
 but some one was without who watched — who rushed 
 in breathlessly at the sight of the fire, and merely 
 saying hoarsely, 
 
 ' Out of the place — out with you ! ' snatched up 
 an old sack from a corner, dropped it upon the burn- 
 ing shavings, and stamped upon it and upon the fiery 
 bits that escaped beyond its edges till all danger was 
 removed. 
 
 Susanna stood for a moment at the door like one 
 fascinated, thinking of running to the house, thinking 
 even of running away altogether, to escape Phcebe, but 
 unable to determine what she would do, and looking 
 so white with fear that her complexion seemed some- 
 thing unearthly in its beauty. 
 
 * Come here I ' said Phoebe, slowly.
 
 A LIGHT IN THE WORKSHOP. 229 
 
 Susanna trembled, but obeyed, and recrossed the 
 threshold of the workshop. 
 
 ^What's the meaning of this ? ' 
 
 Susanna again trembled and looked about as if in 
 despair of an answer, till she saw, by the light of the 
 taper on the bench, the little heap of ashes from Ste- 
 phen's pipe ; and at once she said, speaking very fast, 
 
 * I was just coming home when I saw a light in 
 the workshop, and 1 thought Mr, Waterman was 
 there, and he wasn't ; but as soon as I opened the 
 door there was a great blaze — yes — and Stephen — 
 Mr. Waterman — must have dropped a spark from 
 his pipe, and I was so frightened.' 
 
 * You're telling me a lie, you know you are, and 
 it must be for a bad purpose,' said Phoebe, trying to 
 preserve an air of authority and to conceal her own 
 inner anguish ; but, before she could say any more, 
 she suddenly finished the business by seizing the 
 girl, and giving her a few hearty blows, which were 
 interrupted on the one side by appeals — 
 
 ' Oh, oh ! forgive me, and I'll never come here 
 again ; ' and by the reiteration of the same question 
 on the other,
 
 230 GUY WATERMAN. 
 
 * You'll mind rae next time, will you?* 
 
 Quivering with fear and pain — for it was the first 
 time in her life that Susanna had been subjected to 
 such treatment — she glided away in the dark to the 
 house, and up to her chamber, where she undressed 
 and looked at her bruises, and actually bit her own 
 arm in one place to increase the apparent injury, and 
 shook it threateningly at Phcebe in the direction of 
 the workshop. Then she went to bed to dream of 
 future vengeance, and of the golden fruits that her 
 imagination painted as hanging ready for her in the 
 path of life. 
 
 But Phoebe, after her first burst of alarm and 
 anger, was oppressed with shame, grief, and despair. 
 To beat the child of her neighbour — the child of the 
 dead woman — the child that was so beautiful, and 
 that so loved Guy ! She felt sick of herself, sick of 
 all her past hopes, sick of life ; she dropped one arm 
 wearily on the bench, and leaned there with drooping 
 head, as though she wished she could thus sink into 
 the grave. 
 
 But she was roused by a call without of — 
 
 'Mother! Mother!*
 
 CHAPTER XX. 
 
 A YOUNG WARRIOR FROM HIS FIRST BATTLE FIELD. 
 
 When Phoebe heard the voice crying ' Mother ! 
 mother ! ' she sprang up in an instant, her whole 
 manner changed, and she came to the door of the 
 workshop with a feeHng ahnost akin to joy. 
 
 ' Guy, darling, is it thee ? ' 
 
 ' Yes, mother, it's me,' answered the boy, whose 
 face could scarcely be distinguished through the 
 gloom of the night. Phoebe, without another word, 
 dropped on her knees on the sward, so as the better 
 to clasp him in her arms, and she broke out into a 
 great fit of weeping, as she exclaimed, 
 
 * Oh, Guy, Guy, Guy ! ' 
 
 Although the lad must have been quite unable to 
 understand her, his mother's conduct did not seem 
 very much to surprise him, for he said, 
 
 * It's nothing, mother ! Don't cry about it ; it'll 
 all wash off.'
 
 232 GUY WATERMAN. 
 
 * What, what,' asked Phoebe, in sudden alarm, 
 
 * what's the matter ? ' and without waiting for an 
 answer she began to peer into his face, and to feel 
 over his head with her hands, but started, with a 
 half-suppressed scream, as she found her fingers wet. 
 
 * Is it blood ? ' she gasped, fearfully. 
 
 * Yes, mother,' said Guy, laughing, * but it don't 
 matter.' But Phoebe began to hurry him along 
 towards the house, asking him all sorts of questions 
 as she went, and growing the more agitated as she 
 observed that, for some cause or other, the boy did 
 not care to say any more than he could help. 
 
 ' The master gave me a holiday to come home 
 and see you, and — and — I got fighting with a boy 
 on the road, that's all, mother.' 
 
 It was well for that boy he was not just then in 
 Phoebe's immediate neighbourhood. Whether his 
 cause had been good or bad would have made little 
 difference to Phcebe : the knowledge that he had 
 dared to touch Guy was enough to rouse her to 
 frenzy. Knowing not what else to say or whom 
 else to attack, she presently began to rate Guy for 
 his misconduct.
 
 A YOUNG WABRIOR FROM HIS FIRST BATTLE-FIELD. 233 
 
 * How dare you fight anyone ? ' she asked. 
 'How dare I? Would you have me be a coward 
 
 then?' 
 
 ' Well, but see what you've got by it, sir ; the 
 other boy's beat you, and a pretty, pretty state 
 you're in.' 
 
 * Oh, has he ? I reckon he doesn't think he has, 
 mother, he was blind as a bat, and I had to take 
 him home ; but it's all right now, and we're 
 friends.' 
 
 ' Who was it ? ' 
 ' Billy Gage ! ' 
 
 * What ! the carrier's son ? Why, he's almost 
 twice as big as you ! ' 
 
 * Well, mother, he couldn't help that, you know.' 
 Though Phcebe couldn't quite understand Guy's 
 
 logic, somehow her heart swelled with pride ; and, 
 when she tried to warn him against fighting any 
 more, all she could say was, 
 
 * Don't. For my sake, Guy, don't. There's a 
 brave, brave boy ! ' and she dwelled fondly on the 
 last words. And then Guy knew he was forgiven. 
 And mother and son kissed one another with a
 
 234 GUY WATERMAN. 
 
 heartiness of affection that was at once touching 
 and beautiful. 
 
 By this time they had got into the house, and 
 Guy had been brought before the light to let his 
 hurts be made known. There was an ugly gash 
 across the head, and Phoebe shuddered as she be- 
 held it. 
 
 * Why, Guy, Billy couldn't ha' done this with his 
 fists ? ' 
 
 Guy made no answer. He knew it had been a 
 foul blow, made with a closed knife that Billy Gage 
 had in his hand when he struck the first time ; but 
 as Billy had ultimately said he had struck without 
 thinking of the knife, Guy didn't care to expose his 
 late enemy to the indignant vengeance of his mother. 
 So, when Phcebe looked at him for an answer, she 
 saw his eyes were turned another way ; and, follow- 
 ing the direction of their glance, Phoebe noticed that 
 Susanna was standing there, at the foot of the stair- 
 case, in her night dress, over which she had hastily 
 thrown an Indian shawl, while carrying in one hand 
 the twisted red wax taper (which she had again 
 lighted for amusement while playing the lady
 
 A YOUNG WARRIOR FROM HIS FIRST BATTLE-FIELD. 235 
 
 upstairs) ; the shawl, like the taper, being, as Phoebe 
 guessed, from her mother's stores. She looked so 
 very lovely, with her long curling hair falling loosely 
 in picturesque disorder about her neck, that Phoebe 
 and Guy were alike struck with the spectacle. 
 
 Not that Guy and Susanna were any great friends 
 at present. She was accustomed to make the boy 
 a kind of butt at one time, and then at another to 
 turn him into a pet or toy, in which not succeeding, 
 the two would generally quarrel and part. But, 
 whether it was the secret belief that animated. 
 Susanna to-night that the boy she saw standing 
 there in such sorry plight was the heir to the vast 
 Dalrymple estates, or whether it was that her heart 
 was really moved with pity as she looked on his un- 
 naturally pale face and wet hair all dark and clotted 
 with blood, certain it is she looked a very angel of 
 sweetness as she advanced and put down her little 
 taper, and began to busy herself with great alacrity 
 in waiting upon Phoebe, and bringing to her what- 
 ever she was most likely to want. 
 
 * Poor fellow ! I am so sorry ! Here's the vine- 
 gar, Mrs. Waterman. I'd best now bring some
 
 236 GUY WATERMAN. 
 
 water to wash bis face. Would he like a drink ? 
 Poor Guy ! I'm so glad I wasn't asleep.' 
 
 Guy listened and watched, but with no very 
 gracious return for Susanna's kind words or kind 
 doings. And when she offered to touch bira be 
 put her back and would only let Phoebe officiate. 
 But Susanna smiled, and persisted in doing whatever 
 she could. And as Phoebe cut away the tangled 
 and bedabbled locks with her scissors, and bathed 
 the wound, Susanna got ready a piece of sticking- 
 plaster, and would have clapped it upon the place, 
 after duly breathing upon it and snipping the edges 
 to make them stick, and showing she knew how to 
 do it all in the best manner, but that Guy again, 
 with marked rudeness, pushed back her hand, 
 saying— 
 
 ' Do be quiet and let me alone, can't you ? 
 You're not so fond of meddling generally. Let 
 mother put it on.' 
 
 This certainly was unkindly said, and Susanna 
 seemed to feel it very much. She turned away 
 and wiped her eyes. 
 
 By the time Phoebe had finished the whole
 
 A YOUNG WABRIOR FROM HIS FIRST BATTLE-FIELD. 237 
 
 business of repairing, washing, and freshening the 
 bruised, dirty, and jaded warrior, Guy had not only 
 recovered his ordinary appearance, but seemed to 
 be also reverting to his usually placid temper. He 
 now stood there in the parlour, showing to Phoebe's 
 fond eyes a tall, bright-faced, sun-burnt lad, with 
 rich brown eyes full of eloquent expression. Phoebe, 
 as she tied a new black ribbon round his neck, could 
 not help holding him there for a moment that she 
 might feast her sight with his beauty, which was so 
 thoroughly the right kind of beauty for a lad, as 
 suggesting, not prettiness, or elegance, or delicacy, 
 but dawning manliness, strength, frankness, brusque- 
 ness, not unmingled with a certain shyness of 
 manner that implied reserve of mind, and an innate 
 grace or refinement of body. The * gentleman ' 
 that Phoebe coveted so much to see, and for which 
 she had made so many sacrifices, was developing 
 there, plain enough though latent ; but there was 
 a something still higher also slowly growing up — 
 the man, with all his varied powers, at once rich 
 and harmonious, and being moulded under the con- 
 trol of a will and a conscience that promised one
 
 238 GUY WATERMAN. 
 
 day to exhibit a truly noble character whatever 
 might be his position in life. 
 
 Phoebe could not resist kissing him again and 
 again ; and, though he coloured a little under the 
 infliction, still it was plain enough the lad returned 
 the love that was so poured forth upon him. But 
 when Susanna, w^ho had again come to the side of 
 Phoebe, seemed to be so very deeply impressed with 
 the nature of the scene that she, too, would have 
 shared in it by also caressing the hero of the late 
 fight, he very contemptuously dismissed her preten- 
 sions by the remark, 
 
 *Ain't you going to bed? It's quite time for girls 
 like you to be there. Come, be off!' 
 
 Susanna replied by bursting into tears, which 
 she did not this time attempt to hide or to dry 
 up. Presently she sobbed out, 
 
 ' You're an unfeeling, good-for-nothing boy, that 
 you are ; and I'll never care for you any more. I 
 know .you don't care for me.' 
 
 Guy looked, and, whether it was that the tears 
 added a new and irresistible charm to Susanna's 
 face, or that he had all along been only partly
 
 A YOUNG WARRIOR FROM HIS FIRST BATTLE-FIELD. 239 
 
 representing his true self, we won't undertake to 
 say, but after a good long look at her, he said, 
 
 * Don't I?' - 
 
 ' No ; you know you don't.' 
 ' Oh, and I suppose it wasn't for you I pitched 
 into Billy Gage ? ' 
 
 * Billy Gage ! Me ! ' ' Susanna's eyes did now in- 
 deed open wide, for she was really astonished, and 
 did not need to try to appear so. 
 
 * Yes,' said Guy ; * he said things about you 
 he'd no business to say, and I pitched into him. 
 There, now, will you go to bed ? I didn't mean 
 to tell you or anybody, but you wouldn't let me 
 alone.' 
 
 Susanna's first thought was of wonder what that 
 great, big, impudent Billy Gage could have been 
 saying about her ; her next, that it was possibly 
 something that it might be as well to leave unre- 
 peated, for what if it should be both unpleasant 
 and true? But the first thing that her thoughts 
 caused her to do was to fall upon Guy's neck before 
 he was aware of her purpose, and cry as she kissed 
 his round cheek with seemingly grateful emotion,
 
 240 GUY WATERMAN. 
 
 *0b, Guy, you are indeed a noble fellow! Did 
 you really fight him for me ? And was he very 
 much hurt ? Oh, I'll never speak to you unkindly 
 any more ; I won't indeed.'
 
 CHAPTER XXL 
 
 MR. PAMPLE S COUSIN. 
 
 Phcebe had not been a careless observer of the scene 
 between Guy and Susanna, and it only caused her 
 to revert with increased anxiety to the idea of her 
 visit to Mr. Dalrymple. She had got, as we have 
 already intimated, some new fancy into her head, 
 and, although she was not very sure of its value, 
 she could not get rid of it ; and the constant recur- 
 rence of the same thought did for her what it does 
 for so many of us — produce a kind of conviction it 
 must be right. 
 
 Phoebe did not like this new attitude of Susanna, 
 even while she could not help admiring the girl, and 
 while she was obliged to acknowledge that Guy's 
 unexpected defence of her gave a worthy 
 motive for the change. But was the alleged the 
 real motive ? Or was Susanna only showing in this 
 
 VOL. I. R
 
 242 GUT WATERMAN. 
 
 way what Phoebe feared she had already exhibited 
 by her pertinacious haunting of the workshop, that 
 she guessed something about Guy's birth ? And 
 whenever Phoebe allowed herself thus to get sus- 
 picious she was sure to be wanting to do something 
 to render it difficult, if not impossible, that Guy and 
 Susanna should ever be more to each other as man 
 and woman than they now were as boy and girl. 
 Phoebe was quick enough to perceive the many ad- 
 vantages that Susanna possessed for ensuring success 
 in her aim— if, indeed, she had such an aim — in her 
 beauty, her money, and in her superior age, which 
 made it possible she would obtain a decisive influence 
 over Guy if he once fell under her influence. 
 
 She determined she would go to the Hall the next 
 day and try the worth of her scheme. 
 
 But could she leave Susanna ? AVould she not 
 repeat her search in the workshop ? Phoebe thought 
 she would not. Susanna was not (at present at 
 least) possessed of that quality which her mother 
 undoubtedly could lay claim to — courage. Phoebe 
 felt tolerably sure that for some time to come the 
 beating had done one good thing — frightened
 
 MR. pample's cousin. 243 
 
 Susanna too much to incline her to risk a re- 
 petition. 
 
 And so, early next morning, Phoebe, having 
 stopped Guy from going ofF with Stephen to do a 
 little job at a farmer's house in the neighbourhood, 
 and having deposited Susanna knee-deep among the 
 things she had turned out of her mother's boxes, set 
 off with the lad to revisit Branhape Hall for the first 
 time since the period of the death of Mrs. Dal- 
 rymple, when Phoebe at her return from the ill- 
 starred expedition had brought to the bereaved hus- 
 band the actual confirmation of the news he had 
 previously only vaguely known. 
 
 As they went through the village a gig passed 
 them, containing a lady and gentleman — the former, 
 a woman of striking though rather matronly beauty ; 
 and the other being no other than Mr. Pample, the 
 steward. 
 
 He was so eagerly engaged in talk with the 
 
 lady, whose heightened colour seemed also to imply 
 
 much interest in the conversation, that Phoebe could 
 
 not but wonder who she was and whither they were 
 
 going. She began to have an uneasy impros- 
 
 r2
 
 244 GUY WATERMAN. 
 
 sion that something was going to happen at the Hall 
 that would be fatal to her own project. But of 
 course she could understand little from mere looks. 
 
 The lady was handsome — was going towards the 
 Hall in the care of the steward. Was it possible 
 that Phoebe beheld the opening of a new game in 
 which it was designed that Mr. Dalrymple should 
 unconsciously play his part ? 
 
 While Phoebe vainly racks her brains to solve the 
 problem thus unexpectedly presented, and while she 
 answers Guy's continual questions about every ob- 
 ject they pass that strike him as at all strange or 
 fresh, let us explain on what business Mr. Pample 
 and his companion are going to Branhape. To do 
 this, suppose we take up and string together little 
 bits of the talk that has been going on for the last 
 half-hour, ever since, indeed, the lady got down from 
 the coach and ascended into the gig which Mr. 
 Pample had ready for her. These passages of their 
 conversation were from time to time interrupted by 
 more commonplace matters (which we pass over), 
 especially by questions from the lady which showed 
 that she, at least, had no particular object in view
 
 MR. pample's cousin. 245 
 
 that demanded either cautious language or mental 
 reserve. 
 
 ' AVell, cousin/ observed the lady, as she took her 
 seat in the gig, and allowed Mr. Pample to fasten 
 the apron carefully over her knees and her rich black 
 silk dress; ' well, cousin, you see I took your advice, 
 and came exact to your time, and I hope everything 
 will turn out pleasantly. But, really, do you know 
 that I never thought I could have been induced to 
 give up my dear little cottage by the seaside, 
 and to go out into the world again at the age of 
 forty ? ' 
 
 * Forty ! ' echoed Mr. Pample with well-feigned 
 astonishment. 
 
 * Forty ! not a year less,' repeated Mrs Hammett 
 with a hearty laugh that contrasted strongly with 
 the smile that Mr. Pample alone indulged in. He 
 was one of those gentlemen who smile often — laugh 
 never. ' It's true,' she observed, ' my income is 
 small enough, but then I can just live upon it ; and, 
 upon my word, I don't see even now why I should 
 have determined to come out into the world to 
 play the housekeeper to a country squire. Do you?'
 
 246 GUY WATERMAN. 
 
 And Mrs. Hammett looked at Mr. Pample with 
 such real, simple interest in the answer, and yet with 
 so much of contentment in the result, whatever it 
 might be, and with such handsome, white teeth re- 
 vealed through the rosy lips, and with such glowing 
 summer tints in her well-formed features, that Mr. 
 Pample began for an instant to falter in his reply as 
 a new contingency opened upon him. But, what- 
 ever it w^as, he seemed to give it up with a sigh when 
 he said to her, 
 
 ' Yes, cousin, I thought it for the best, or I 
 would not have written to you, and I still think 
 the same.' 
 
 'Do you? Well, that's satisfactory. Come, 
 then, tell me all about him, and what you think I 
 ought to know, and so on.' 
 
 * First, let me tell you that I think so handsome 
 a woman as my cousin — ' 
 
 ' Lord, George ! do you think me handsome ? ' 
 asked Mrs. Hammett, with the same overflowing 
 good-humour and animal spirits that marked all 
 her sallies, but also with a little blush that Mr. 
 Pample was pleased to see.
 
 MR. pample's cousin. 247 
 
 ' You are, if you want to know the truth, really 
 younger-looking and altogether more beautiful than 
 when I saw you last, some five years ago.' 
 
 *\Vell, but I suppose it's not my beauty that 
 brings me here ; so go on.' 
 
 Mr. Pample coughed and turned aside (his prac- 
 tice when he wanted to snatch extra time for a deli- 
 cate answer), and then seemed to go on just where 
 he had before left off. 
 
 ' Yes, as I was saying, I think that so handsome 
 a woman as you are was born for something better 
 than cultivating flowers and tea-drinking old ladies 
 at the seaside.' 
 
 * Well, cousin, I might have been born for a 
 better position, as you say, but I have been a long 
 while getting at it — now, haven't I ? ' 
 
 Mr. Pample hated to be interrupted, and the 
 smile that greeted Mrs. Hammett's remark was just 
 a shade less sweet than usual. But he went on 
 with the patience of a martyr. 
 
 *Yes. I think, too, that so accomplished a 
 woman — ' 
 
 ' Lord, George ! am I accomphshed ?
 
 248 GUY WATERMAN. 
 
 * D — it, no! ' would probably have been Mr. Pam- 
 ple's honest expression of rage — we won't say 
 opinion — if he had given w^ay to it ; but what he 
 did say was, 
 
 ' My dear cousin, you know — and you have had 
 reason to know — that I think you altogether a most 
 charming person.' 
 
 Well, that was true. Mrs. Ilammett did know 
 that many years back, when the choice was offered 
 her between two rival aspirants for her favour, 
 Mr. Pample was the one she did not select as her 
 husband. 
 
 Presently Mr. Pample continued — * Now, then, 
 permit me, without inter — that is, allow me, my 
 dear cousin, to tell you why it was that I advised 
 you so strongly to come here and break up your 
 little home, where your poor husband left you so 
 comfortably so long ago ? ' 
 
 * Yes, do ; that's just what I want to know.' 
 
 *Very well, then. First, you must know that the 
 
 squire is wifeless and childless. He lost both a few 
 
 years ago through a mad freak of his lady, who, 
 
 being a Catholic, wished to train the boy as a
 
 ME. pample's cousin. 249 
 
 Catholic, and, as he wouldn't consent, she surrep- 
 titiously took hira away.' 
 
 * Dear me ! ' ejaculated Mrs. Hammett, with true 
 womanly sympathy in her tones for all the trouble 
 she saw involved for both parties. 
 
 * Yes, and I went after them ; and found the 
 child dead on the deck of the vessel, and the very 
 next day there was a great storm, and the squire's 
 lady went down in it to the bottom of the sea with 
 the wreck of the ship.' 
 
 ' O dear ! O dear ! That was indeed swift punish- 
 ment on the poor lady's wrong-doing.' 
 
 ' Since then the squire has led a miserable life. 
 He used to hunt regularly, and had a pack of the 
 finest hounds in the county ; but he sold them off, 
 and now he scarcely stirs from the Hall.' 
 
 ' And he has no other child, you say ? ' 
 
 * No ; and you may think what it is for an old 
 and proud family like his to be coming thus to its 
 end. 'Tis that that preys upon him, I think. I 
 don't mean that he didn't very much miss his lady, 
 but still he'd have got over that loss in time if any- 
 thing else had been left him to live for.'
 
 250 GUY WATEEMAN. 
 
 * Poor dear gentleman ! ' said Mrs. Hammett, 
 and the tears were standing in her large soft blue 
 eyes. 
 
 *Well,' continued Mr. Pample, 'I have been 
 trying to persuade him to marry, but he peremp- 
 torily forbids the subject even to be discussed. 
 Since then it occurred to me that if, under the 
 name and notion of a superior kind of housekeeper, 
 I could introduce to the Hall some ladylike person 
 of superior mind and character, he might get used 
 to her society, and so cease to dwell perpetually on 
 his troubles. A mere housekeeper wouldn't do. We 
 already have at the Hall a very decent and clever 
 woman who fulfils the routine duties of such a 
 department ; but what I want for him is a woman of 
 good sense and agreeable manners, who can preside 
 at his table on ordinary occasions, talk with him, 
 interest him, and yet not presume so far on her 
 success (if she were successful) as to forget she 
 is not his guest or relative, but only his house- 
 keeper.' 
 
 ' Well, George, I thank you for speaking so can- 
 didly ; and I think I can do what you wish, if he
 
 MR. pample's cousm. 251 
 
 receives me at all kindly ; if not, I go back pretty 
 soon. Poor dear gentleman, I am sure 1 shall be 
 only too glad if I can be of service to him.' 
 
 *Yes, cousin, that's right. Only don't forget — 
 for I obtained his consent to the arrangement with 
 difficulty — that you mustn't seem to pity him, or 
 scarcely even to know anything about him that calls 
 for pity, or you'll settle him at once.' 
 
 ' Oh, never fear I I shall respect him too much for 
 that. He must be no ordinary man to mourn so 
 long for his wife and child.' 
 
 'Yes, but it's quite time to forget them now. 
 And I fancy he looks with interest for your arrival ; 
 he has seemed so much more cheerful during the 
 last few days. So, if you can work a cure here, I, 
 for my part shall be only too glad, for the sake of 
 all parties.' 
 
 Had Mr. Pample any special meaning hidden 
 beneath these words? Mrs. Hammett could not 
 but notice the peculiar tone and the winning smile 
 that accompanied them. Her face flushed, she 
 grew hot and uncomfortable, as she said, 
 
 * I hope, George, you don't think me so silly as
 
 252 
 
 GUT WATERMAN. 
 
 to come here with any other notion than the one you 
 yourself gave me ? ' 
 
 * No, no, of course not,' responded Mr. Pample, 
 while his eyes seem to rest inquisitively on Mrs. 
 Hammett's. ' But, at the same time, if the lord of 
 the manor of Branhape were to fall in love with my 
 handsome cousin, and offer her marriage, I can pro- 
 raise you I should discover no impediment. OnJy I 
 hope that if such an event ever does come to pass, 
 she won't become too grand a lady to remember her 
 poor kinsman.' This was said with a mock-serious 
 air, and altogether with so much apparent sincerity 
 of meaninglessness — beyond the personal good feel- 
 ing implied — that Mrs. Hammett laughed again, a 
 right down honest enjoyable laugh it was, too, as 
 she said, 
 
 ' Oh, depend upon me, and upon my favour, if 
 ever I become the lady of Branhape.' 
 
 * Well, you have your chance,' gaily said Mr. 
 Pamp]e. 
 
 'Who is that woman there looking after us?' 
 suddenly asked Mrs. Hammett; 'the woman, I 
 mean, with that fine boy by her side ? '
 
 MR. PAMPLE's COUSIN". 253 
 
 * Uncommonly odd,' muttered Mr. Pample. ' Why, 
 that is the very woman who nursed the squire's boy, 
 and took him secretly away from the village to join 
 her mistress at the seaport where they were to em- 
 bark. She it was who brought home the decisive 
 news of my lady's death, for she saw the last of her 
 upon the wreck.' 
 
 'And the boy?' 
 
 ' Is her own child. He was born within a few 
 days of the squire's, and he, too, was taken on that 
 mad expedition ; for Phoebe — ' 
 
 * Phoebe ? ' interrupted Mrs. Hammett. 
 
 ' Yes, Phcebe Waterman, that is her name. She 
 would not leave her own boy at home, and so 
 the young chap there went with them, Phoebe 
 suckling both, but having some one with her to 
 assist.' 
 
 * And he lived while the squire's boy died ? ' 
 
 * Yes, and it was odd, but when I got upon the 
 deck of the ship— the "Black Gull" they called it, 
 I think — and when I saw a dead child there about 
 to be buried, and another living one in the nurse's 
 arms, I could not help thinking what a convenient
 
 254 GUY WATERMAN. 
 
 tale it might be to get up suddenly, supposing it 
 had been the nurse's boy that had died. Mrs. 
 Dalrymple, you see, would not want to quarrel 
 with her husband's messenger, and would only be 
 too glad to have escaped further difficulty for the 
 time.' 
 
 ' But, bless me ! you don't mean you had any 
 real doubt ? ' 
 
 " ' No ; not after I had seen the face of the nurse, 
 who was evidently quite taken up with the babe she 
 held rather than thinking of, or weeping for, the 
 babe that was dead ; not after I had seen and 
 touched the lace-edged clothes under the winding- 
 sheet. They hardly knew of my coming till I 
 appeared on the deck, and could not, I think, have 
 so hastily undone and replaced the funereal garb, 
 besides changing the two children's dresses. Then, 
 again, if she had been the mother, she would never 
 have allowed me so readily to carry away her child ; 
 why should she? While, of course, it was right 
 and natural for Mrs. Dalrymple to send back hers 
 to the squire, when I asked for him.' 
 
 ' But I suppose you know since then for a
 
 MR. pample's cousin. 255 
 
 certainty that it was the squire's son who died, and 
 not that woman's ? ' 
 
 * Why, my dear cousin, I suppose nobody in the 
 village ever doubted it for an instant. I am sure I 
 didn't. Why should the poor woman wish to 
 burden herself with a child for life that didn't 
 belong to her, instead of taking him home to his 
 rich father, who would have been only too glad to 
 have handsomely rewarded her ? ' 
 
 ' There was never any bad feeling talked of on 
 the part of this woman against either her mistress 
 or the squire ? ' 
 
 ' On the contrary, she and Mrs. Dalrymple were 
 greatly attached to each other ; and as for the 
 squire, he was always liberal and friendly to Phoebe 
 for his wife's sake.' 
 
 * Oh, of course, it's all clear enough ; but I 
 couldn't for the moment help fancying what a 
 position it would have been for that boy all through 
 his life if there had been any doubt as to his birth 
 under these circumstances.' 
 
 * No doubt, whatever, I assure you. So much is 
 that the case, that I had myself almost forgotten
 
 256 GUY WATERMAN. 
 
 the very existence of this lad of Phoebe's till you 
 drew ray attention to hira. He seems a fine boy. 
 Here we are at the Hall. Don't forget, my dear 
 cousin, one thing in dealing with Mr. Dalrymple. 
 Expect nothing, and there's no saying how much 
 may not come to you.' 
 
 The wheels of the gig now creaked on the newly- 
 laid gravel in front of the entrance-porch of Bran- 
 hape ; and Mr. Pample, leaping out, gave his hand 
 to Mrs. Hammett, and conducted her into the 
 house.
 
 CHAPTER XXII. 
 
 IN WHICH THE SQUIRE UPSETS EVERYBODY'S 
 PLANS. 
 
 Whatever the motives that actuated Mr. Para- 
 ple (and certainly we have seen no reason to doubt 
 that he explained them accurately to Mrs. Ham- 
 met), the policy he recommended was followed 
 by instant success. No one who might have looked 
 in upon Mr. Dalrymple in his study a few weeks 
 before the arrival of his new housekeeper, and then 
 have seen the same gentleman a few hours after 
 that event, could have doubted but that some signal 
 and most exhilarating turn of fortune had hap- 
 pened. The change was wonderful in its amount, 
 though not at all wonderful as to its philosophy. 
 The mind of the unhappy gentleman had become 
 so habituated to the same ceaseless daily recur- 
 rence of melancholy thoughts that it was easier to 
 VOL. I. s
 
 258 GUY WATERMAN. 
 
 go on as he was than make any great improvement 
 at the cost of an effort that could only be suggested 
 by a sense of duty, or by a felt necessity of throwing 
 off the burden that weighed down his spirits, or, 
 lastly, by a hope that was at once sufficiently strong 
 and attractive to draw him out of his gloom. But 
 for years past all these motives had been wanting. 
 Mr. Dalrymple did his duty to the Church, to the 
 poor, and to his tenantry, and was (as Mr. Pample 
 found) still an accurate man of business ; but, 
 having fulfilled these responsibilities, he acknow- 
 ledged no others as incumbent upon him. As to 
 his animal spirits, they had altogether disappeared. 
 He would listen with his old enthusiasm to the 
 cry of a pack on some breezy morning; but 
 the occasions were few on which he could be 
 again tempted to join the brother sportsmen among 
 whom at one period he had spent so large a part of 
 his time and income. And hope ? Why, he had 
 none, unless it were to drop peacefully but speedily 
 into the vault of his ancestors, and so bring to a 
 close a life that seemed to him to have been so 
 useless.
 
 THE SQUIRE UPSETS EVERYBODY'S PLANS. 259 
 
 But for some little time before Mrs. Hammett's 
 arrival a great change had been noticed. And 
 when she had been but an hour or two at Branhape, 
 the squire's laugh was heard once more echoing 
 through the vaulted corridor as he took that lady 
 to see certain parts of her future dominion. She 
 was puzzled, and couldn't resist feeling a little 
 flattered. Surely it was not her appearance that 
 had been so powerful with him, though he was at 
 first much struck with her ; and he had felt con- 
 fused and begun to ask himself what Mr. Pample 
 meant by bringing such a woman there. But when 
 they had fairly got into chat he had found some- 
 thing about her which pleased and attracted him. 
 She seemed at once so simple and yet so wise ; so 
 frank and outspoken, and yet so fond of the little 
 innocent coquetries of the sex ; and then her smile 
 was so catching and her mirth so irresistible. 
 Altogether the squire appeared to have put on 
 suddenly a new character ; and, if it was not owing 
 to Mrs. Hammetts presence, what was it that so 
 transformed him? And, whatever secret thought 
 
 might be in the squire's mind, it is certain that he 
 
 s2
 
 260 GUY WATERMAN. 
 
 looked upon Mrs. Haramett as a new and agreeable 
 inmate of his house, whom he was heartily glad to 
 welcome. 
 
 Mr. Paraple was present most of the time, and 
 smiled again and again his very sweetest upon both 
 the cheerful faces before him, and rubbed his hands 
 gently as though they were slightly cold, but really 
 to express to himself the abundance of his inner 
 satisfaction with his policy. 
 
 They were all three at lunch in the stately 
 dining-room when Phoebe and Guy arrived, and 
 there the two dusty wayfarers found the squire 
 and the lady and gentleman they had seen in the 
 
 gig- 
 
 ' Come in, Phcebe — come in,' cried the loud 
 
 voice of the squire, as a man servant entered and 
 
 stood looking back over the threshold. ' Oh, you've 
 
 the boy there, have you ? That's right. 1 haven't 
 
 seen him a long time. And how are you ? Why, 
 
 you look sadly altered ! What's been the matter ? ' 
 
 Phoebe looked at Mr. Pample and Mrs. Ham- 
 mett, and curtsied, but was silent. 
 
 ' Oh, speak out ! You needn't mind my friends
 
 THE SQUIRE UPSETS EVERYBODY'S PLANS. *^61 
 
 here. Take a glass of wine ; t'will do you good.' 
 Phoebe came near, took the glass, curtsied before 
 drinking to Mr. Dalrymple and Mr. Pample, 
 looked at Mrs. Haramett but did not curtsy to her, 
 and then drank it off. 
 
 Guy meanwhile, who had been quietly taking a 
 look at the statues and pictures of the room, 
 just glanced at Mr. Pample (who nodded to him), 
 and at Mrs. Hammett (who smiled), and then 
 fixed his eye on the squire, and from that time 
 continued to observe him. 
 
 'And so, Guy, you've come to see your god- 
 father at last— eh? Why, you've grown so fine a 
 lad I shouldn't wonder if you didn't mean to be a 
 man some day.' 
 
 ' Of course I shall be a man, sir,' said Guy, 
 looking in the squire's face with his bright fearless 
 gaze. 
 
 ' 1 wonder whether I can find a guinea for you ? ' 
 and the squire began to search in his pocket. ' 
 
 'I don't want it, sir,' said Guy. 
 
 * For shame, Guy I ' interposed Phoebe ; ' you 
 mustn't speak that way to the squire.'
 
 262 GUY WATERMAN. 
 
 * Mustn't I ? Why not ? ' asked Guy. 
 
 * Ay, come, Phoebe, tell us that,' said the squire, 
 laughing. 'I think he has puzzled you there. 
 And so you don't want my guinea ? ' 
 
 ' No, sir.' 
 
 ' Well, what do you want ? Speak out. You're 
 no boy if you don't want something.' 
 
 Guy looked round the room wistfully, and then 
 said, 
 
 ' Please may I look at the pictures ? ' 
 
 *0f course you may. Go where you like, and 
 look at them all.' Guy waited for no further per- 
 mission, but at once, without either thanking the 
 squire or taking any notice of him, went towards 
 the walls, and forgot all about place, or rank, or 
 people, in his absorbing delight in examining at his 
 pleasure the coloured glories that he saw all around, 
 and especially a battle-piece at the end of the 
 room that showed *where one of the Dalrymple 
 fanfiily had helped to make the history of his 
 country. 
 
 Guy thus disposed of, Mr. Dalrymple came and 
 sat near Phoebe, so that, if she wanted to say aught
 
 THE SQUIRE UPSETS EVERYBODY'S PLANS. 263 
 
 privately to him, she might do so. Again he 
 noticed her worn, sad look, and asked her what was 
 die matter. 
 
 Phoebe sighed in answer, and said, *And you, 
 too, sir, seem to be much changed.' 
 
 ' Well, yes, I suppose so,' slowly remarked Mr. 
 Dalrymple; and the gloom so recently departing 
 seemed all coming back in connection with this 
 reminder of his sufferings, and under the influence 
 of the vivid past which Phoebe's presence and sad- 
 ness of demeanour began to call up. 
 
 ' Please to forgive me — presuming to speak or to 
 offer advice to one like you, sir.' 
 
 * Oh pray speak, and fearlessly.' 
 
 'Well, sir, I have often thought you ought to 
 
 have some one to love and care for, and ' 
 
 Here Phoebe found her powers of eloquence break 
 down, and she looked round for Guy. 
 
 But Mr. Dalrymple came to her aid. 
 
 ' Well, Phoebe, to tell you the truth, I am very 
 much of the same mind.' 
 
 ' Are you, indeed, sir ? ' 
 
 * Yes, and my good friend Mr. Pample has so
 
 264 GUY WATERMAN. 
 
 often urged the same matter upon me that 
 
 Mr. Dalrymple here paused, went to the window, 
 and looked out ; while Mr. Pample looked at Mrs. 
 Hammett, and then drew nearer to where Phoebe 
 stood, evidently puzzled, and not altogether at his 
 ease, as to what was coming. Suddenly there 
 came a loud ring at the bell. 
 
 * Ay, there she is ! Well, Phoebe, I shall pre- 
 sently be able to introduce you to one, who, I trust, 
 will give me the opportunity you so kindly desire 
 for me ; who will also, I hope, set at rest all Mr. 
 Pample's uneasiness; and who will, I am sure, need 
 and benefit by Mrs. Hammett's kindly forethought 
 and care.' And, then turning to that lady, he said, 
 with the old courtly grace which separated him so 
 widely from many of his foxhunting brethren, ' If I 
 have seemed to you especially glad of your arrival 
 and gratified with our converge, it is not so much for 
 my own sake, glad as I am to welcome you, as for 
 that of the young lady who has, I think, just now 
 arrived.' 
 
 While they all waited in wonder to see who the 
 young lady might be, PliOBbe in particular felt her
 
 THE SQUIRE UPSETS EVERYBODY'S PLANS. 265 
 
 heart sink as she saw the fading of her latest day- 
 dream — that she would on this visit win the squire's 
 favour towards Guy — that the boy should be taken 
 into the Hall and be placed, as she hoped, per- 
 manently, near to the squire's own person. Nature, 
 she thought, might do the rest without exposing her 
 secret guilt. So Guy would get near his father, 
 and be away from Susanna. Such had been 
 Phoebe's last and failing scheme. 
 
 Again the bell rang, and more loudly. 
 
 ' Why,' exclaimed Mr. Dalrymple, with an ap- 
 parent anger and excitement quite unusual to him, 
 as he went and pulled at his own bell, ' how the 
 rascals keep her waiting at the door ! It's time, I 
 think, we had a mistress here.'
 
 CHAPTER XXIII. 
 
 LUCY. 
 
 Was the inquire, then, going to be married after 
 all ? Had he brought home a wife thus unex- 
 pectedly ? These were the questions that each of 
 the three persons he had left in the dining-room 
 asked in his or her silent thoughts, though neither 
 of them said a word to the others. They all waited 
 in a kind of grim expectation the return of the 
 squire with the young lady he was about to intro- 
 duce. Mr. Pample looked at his fingers inquisi- 
 tively ; then he contemplated the colour of the wine 
 in his glass ; then, suddenly rising, he began to 
 pace to and fro the room, but as suddenly remem- 
 bered that if Mr. Dalrymple was not present other 
 parties were who might notice his conduct, so he 
 went to the window and there remained, trying 
 apparently to get a glimpse of what was passing in
 
 LUCY. 267 
 
 the courtyard below, but unable to accomplish his 
 desire. Yet, if what he imagined^ were true, and 
 Mr. Dalrymple had found for himself a wife, why 
 should the steward be troubled, seeing that he had 
 himself advised precisely such a step ? Still, he 
 was troubled ; and if there had been accurate ob- 
 servers present they must have noticed how absorbed 
 he was in gloomy reflection. But he knew well 
 enough the persons present were not observers of 
 this kind. Phoebe, to his eyes, was not worth a 
 second thought ; and as to Mrs. Hararaett, she was 
 too simple-hearted, too open and unsuspicious, to 
 be capable of imagining anything peculiar in the 
 abstractions of her cousin. No doubt he had (she 
 said to herself) a deal to think of, with all the affairs 
 of so large an estate upon his hands ; and with that 
 comment she dismissed the subject to return to the 
 previous one that had attracted her — the position 
 and conduct of the squire. She was interested, but 
 not at all chagrined, at the possible ending of Mr. 
 Pample's scheme for her ; for she began to think he 
 had seriously designed for her a brilliant marriage 
 and position. On the whole, she was rather amused
 
 268 GUY WATERMAN. 
 
 than otherwise to think how well the intending bride- 
 groom must have kept his own counsel to make all 
 his arrangements in secret, while laughing, no doubt, 
 at the well-meant eiForts and appeals of his friends 
 to get him to do precisely that which he had ar- 
 ranged should be done. 
 
 Phoebe, who sat apart from both, looked all the 
 while the very picture of despair. Her scheme, she 
 was now certain, was hopeless. Well, then, she 
 ought to tell Mr. Dalrymple of her poverty, and see 
 if he felt inclined to help her for the boy's sake ; so 
 that, at least, Guy might be retained at school, and 
 actual famine be kept off. But she was depressed, 
 wretched, and seemed to have no particle of courage 
 left to tell her tale. Again and again she sighed 
 heavily. Guy, who had now completed the tour of 
 the apartment, came to her ; and, seeing her sad 
 look, put his hand in hers and leaned his shoulder 
 against her. She understood the movement and 
 clasped him round the waist, and strained him to 
 her side so passionately that the boy felt only the 
 more sure that something was wrong, and although 
 he did not speak he would not again move from her
 
 LUCY. 269 
 
 side. Not, at least, till he was called for by the 
 squire, as strange to say he was, when an entire 
 hour had passed away. No explanation was given. 
 A servant merely put in his head and said, 
 
 * Please, Mrs. Waterman, will you let your boy 
 go to the squire ? ' 
 
 Guy looked as if he did not half like to leave his 
 mother ; but she, with glad heart and trembling 
 hands, undid and retied his neck-ribbon, smoothed 
 his hair, kissed him fervently, and sent him away. 
 Once more her eager soul began to speculate with 
 hope and joy on this new incident, which seemed to 
 show that the squire was, after all, about to ' take 
 to the boy/ 
 
 Let us clear up the mystery. 
 
 When Mr. Dalrymple left the dining-room he 
 met one of the servants, who said to him as he was 
 hurrying along, 
 
 ' The young lady, sir, 's in the little study. She 
 seems very bad, sir. Robert, the coachman, says 
 whenever he looked into the carriage he saw hov 
 always crying.' 
 
 ' Poor thing ! Poor thing ! ' ejaculated Mr. Dal-
 
 270 GUY WATERMAN. 
 
 rymple, and p-issed on. When he entered the 
 study (the same that contained the portrait of his 
 deceased wife), he found a little girl, some eight or 
 ten years old, sitting on a chair in a corner, looking 
 with a strange and scared look towards him as he 
 came in. Her face was rather pretty than beautiful, 
 though, no doubt, she had impaired its appearance 
 by her long fit of weeping, and by the general sense 
 of anguish that was stamped upon her features. 
 But she was no longer crying ; she seemed to feel 
 the critical moment had come ; that she must be a 
 woman now, and do as she had been told she 
 ought to do. So, mastering her grief for a time, 
 she sat resigned, pale, but unable to hide the 
 frightened look with which she met the lord of 
 Branhape, her rich relative and future guardian. 
 
 Lucy Dalrymple was the daughter of a distant 
 offshoot of the squire's fam.ily, a doctor, an amiable, 
 but not very energetic man, who had never suc- 
 ceeded in obtaining patients ; and who, being too 
 proud to beg for help from the Dairymples, was 
 starving in a kind of genteel way at a remote 
 watering-place. Mr. Dalrymple had known nothing
 
 LUCY. 271 
 
 of his circumstances, and, till recently, was scarcely 
 aware that the doctor had any family. But when 
 his friends and Mr. Pample began to remonstrate 
 with him upon his solitary condition, he saw they 
 would never let him rest, unless he found some 
 solution of the difficulty of his state. As to mar- 
 riage, he would have felt the proposition little less 
 than an insult, had he not been sure, as he thought, 
 of the goodness of the motives of those who urged 
 it, Mr. Pample included. But he saw they were 
 right in thinking he should do something. So, 
 after a good deal of cogitation, he began to reckon 
 what relatives he had, from among whose families 
 he might adopt a child to be his heir. It was 
 characteristic of him that he finally passed over all 
 the well-to-do among his kindred, who were only too 
 ready, each and all, to meet his wishes, in order to 
 fix upon the poor doctor, whose circumstances then 
 first became known to him. But this poor doctor 
 was precisely the man wiio gave him the greatest 
 difficulty to deal with. He did not want to part 
 with his darling and eldest girl, though lie had 
 three other children ; and she shared all his feelings
 
 272 GUY WATEBMAX. 
 
 and begged him not to let her go. But the wiser 
 mother — and who perhaps, was also the most 
 loving — eventually persuaded both of them that it 
 was best to consent. She urged that the squire was 
 not only a rich man but a good man ; and when 
 that argument had convinced the doctor, but still 
 left Lucy as obdurate as ever, the mother found a 
 new source of strength in relating the squire's his- 
 tory, with the loss of his dearly-beloved wife at sea, 
 and the previous death of his only child. When 
 Lucy heard that she began to listen. After a while 
 she dried her tears ; and so, in another day or two, 
 she was eventually persuaded to consent. The doc- 
 tor declared she should not go without that consent 
 being clearly given ; but the mother, with loving 
 tact, was able to use the condition as a new advan- 
 tage, by appealing to the generous will of the child. 
 And so, at last, Lucy had consented to go to Bran- 
 hape, there to be educated as the future mistress of 
 the Hall, and to leave her own dear though poverty- 
 stricken home, and the parents whom she almost 
 worshipped. 
 
 And when once the child had consented, she bore
 
 LUCY. 273 
 
 up bravely through all the business of preparation 
 and the making of new dresses, &c., requisite for 
 her suitable appearance. Now and then, while her 
 mother was trying to make her express some pleasure 
 at the sight of a silk frock or some pretty jewel for 
 her hair that had been bought for her by the squire's 
 orders, a sudden tear would start unbidden, but was 
 instantly and sternly repressed, for she knew that the 
 poor mother was suffering more than herself, and yet 
 she saw how well all the suffering was concealed. 
 And thus she was leaving them, appearing at the last 
 so unmoved that the mother's heart ached as she 
 thought that she had taught the child a hard lesson 
 only too well ; but she was undeceived when the very 
 latest moment arrived, and she felt the sudden clasp 
 about her neck, and the heaving of the tender little 
 form that still would not speak, and tried hard not to 
 sob. She went away, with the blessings of her 
 parents on her head, who were greatly comforted by 
 the sight of Lucy's growing moral strength ; and they 
 fondly hoped that the novelty of the journey and of 
 her destination would keep her from giving way to 
 any serious outbreaks of grief when they were divided 
 
 VOL. I. T
 
 274 GUY WATERMAN. 
 
 from her. It had been thought best for the parents 
 not to go with lier all the way to Branhape ; so they 
 accompanied her to a village about ten miles from 
 the Hall ; and there left her, as we have seen, under 
 the charge of the squire's trusty servant, Robert. 
 
 It was well that the parents were left in this 
 delusion, for the knowledge of the truth would 
 probably have induced them to hurry back with her 
 to their home. When the child found herself alone 
 in the carriage, with no one to see how she behaved 
 or felt, and with no one to stimulate her failing 
 courage, she broke out into such passionate fits of 
 grief that Robert declared he had never had so mise- 
 rable a job in his life as the bringing her to Branhape. 
 
 But Nature is wiser than we are, and she was 
 doing for Lucy exactly what it was best for Lucy 
 should be done. She was calling forth the grief 
 that would not be restrained any longer, giving 
 relief to the overcharged spirit, and so preparing 
 for the reaction which is sure to come to youth and 
 health. By the time that Lucy had reached the 
 Hall she had pretty well worn out the passionate- 
 ness of her distress ; had begun a little to clear
 
 LUCY. 275 
 
 her face ; and was able to meet the sa[uire better 
 than he expected. 
 
 * So, my little one, you've come to see the old 
 fellow, have you, and to try to make a little amuse- 
 ment out of him when you've got notbing else to do, 
 eh ? ' Lucy listened, looked at him, and wondered. 
 He didn't look unkind, and yet his speech sounded 
 odd. As she said nothing in answer to that, the 
 squire began to undo her bonnet, observing the 
 while, 
 
 'I wonder what sort of a lady's-maid I should 
 make ? Now, you mustn't laugh, you know.' Just 
 the faintest gleam of a smile began to break out 
 over the pretty childlike face ; but almost as 
 soon as the squire thought he saw the dawning 
 success of his efforts a great big tear began to steal 
 forth. 
 
 The squire was fairly nonplussed. He felt sure 
 there would be another outbreak if he could not 
 anticipate it at its source and turn it into another 
 direction. She allowed him to take off iier bonnet 
 and her little cloak, but still said not a word — 
 unless, indeed, a something that sounded like an
 
 276 CtJjy waterman. 
 
 echo of a ' No ' or a ' Yes ' occasionally, in answer 
 to his questions, was indeed a legitimate English 
 word. 
 
 'Do you like pictures?' asked the squire. It 
 was a lucky question. The little girl nodded her 
 head in answer. ' Is this at all like your mother, 
 do you think ! ' next said the squire, taking her to 
 the portrait of Mrs. Dalrymple. The squire knew 
 he had done wrong the moment the first word 
 had escaped bis lips ; but he knew also that courage, 
 with children, is a captivating quality. So he fairly 
 waited the result, and looked in her face as if with 
 no shadow of misgiving. At first his success was 
 perfect. The child smiled, drew nearer, looked at 
 it, and seemed about to speak, when some latent 
 idea of home rose up, and in such vivid and entranc- 
 ing colours, before the child's imagination, that she 
 murmured — 
 
 ' I want to go back again ; I don't want to stay 
 here.' And then came down the heavy storm the 
 squire had so long feared. 
 
 And then it was that the squire, after sundry 
 unsuccessful attempts to get her into conversation,
 
 LUCY. 277 
 
 bethought him of the presence of Guy, and in- 
 stantly sent off the servant to fetch him. 
 
 * Children best understand children. I'll be bound 
 yon lad will amuse her more in ten minutes than I 
 shall in as many days.' 
 
 When Guy came, his colour a little heightened 
 by his wonder, but his aspect and gestures still ex- 
 hibiting their ordinary serenity and independence, 
 he looked at the squire and then at his little com- 
 panion, and his wonder naturally grew greater. 
 
 * Here, Guy, my man, if you are worthy of your 
 name, here's the very case for you — a damsel in 
 distress and wanting succour. But if you don't 
 understand that — ' 
 
 * Oh, but I do,' observed Guy, returning with 
 interest the squire's look. 
 
 ' The deuce you do ! Well, let's see ! This 
 little girl has just left her home, and she's so kind 
 as to come here and try to comfort me ; but she's 
 not behaving well at the outset, for she insists 
 on my trying to comfort her ; and, worse than all, 
 she doesn't mind me when I do try.' This was said 
 with so much arch pleasantry that Lucy could not
 
 278 GUY WATERMAN. 
 
 help again looking at her future guardian ; and 
 then from him her eyes glanced towards the bright- 
 faced boy who stood there, and who laughed as 
 their eyes met. Then she laughed, too, though 
 she was vexed, for she thought they were both 
 laughing at her. 
 
 'Well, now, Guy, walk about with her; show 
 her the house, If you don't know your way, 
 never mind, so long as you don't get towards the 
 fishpond in the garden, which is very deep and dan- 
 gerous.' 
 
 ' Fishpond ! Please, which is the way to it ? ' 
 asked Guy. 
 
 And the squire could not help giving a hearty 
 laugh at this practical illustration of the value 
 of his warning. 
 
 *Well, go along across the courtyard to that 
 little gate you see there through the window ; 
 that's the way, since you must get into danger. 
 But mind, if you drown her I'll certainly have you 
 hanged.' 
 
 ' Please, what's her name ? ' asked Guy. 
 
 ' Lucy.'
 
 LUCY. 279 
 
 'Come along, Lucy, we'll have famous sport. I 
 can fish, and I'll teach you if you like.' 
 
 * Oh, no, I can't fish, and I don't like to fish.' 
 ' Well, but won't you like to see me fish ? ' 
 ' N — 0,' Lucy was about to say, but Guy cut 
 her short by the observation, 
 
 ' Oh, nonsense ; you don't know what you're talk- 
 ing about. So come along.' 
 
 Guy put out his hand, and, wonderful to say, the 
 timid little maiden took it, after a long look in his 
 frank face, but still not without the question — 
 ' You won't let me be drowned, will you ? ' 
 Guy's laugh was his only answer; and the squire 
 was greatly deceived, as he afterwards said to 
 Phcebe, if he didn't hear two laughs mingling plea- 
 santly together before the threshold of the house 
 was crossed on the way to the fishpond in the garden.
 
 CHAPTER XXIV. 
 
 NATURAL BUT UNWELCOME ADVICE. 
 
 Pleased with his latest idea for winning the child, 
 the squire returned to the dining-room, where 
 liis reappearance alone gave new surprise. But 
 remembering, when he got there, how he had left the 
 persons present, he went to a window, looked out, 
 then called to them — 
 'Here!' 
 
 They all came, Mrs. Hammett first, Mr. Pample 
 next, and then Phoebe. 
 
 ' There she is,' said the^ squire, 'just now crossing 
 the courtyard with Guy. That is the young lady I 
 meant to have introduced to you, but I have been 
 obliged to content myself for the present with simply 
 introducing your boy, Phoebe, to her. That young 
 lady is a distant relative of mine. I have adopted 
 her; henceforward be so good as to treat her in 
 every respect as if she were my own child. Nor
 
 NATUEAL BUT UNWELCOME ADVICE. 281 
 
 will that be very difficult, I think ; for she is, if I 
 am not deceived, a good and sweet girl, and one 
 that will win all hearts by-and-by.' 
 
 ' So,' thought Mrs. Haramett, ' my chance, if I 
 had any, is not entirely gone ; but, thank goodness, 
 I don't care if it is. He's a kind and good gentle- 
 man, and I like him all the better for so taking care 
 of his family.' 
 
 ' So,' thought Mr. Pample, ' matters are not as 
 bad as I fancied, but I must wait to see in which 
 direction my interest now lies.' 
 
 'So,' thought Phoebe, 'I've fooled myself a 
 second time. There's now no longer a chance for 
 Guy. That girl has pushed him out from his own 
 father's hearth. Oh, if I might but speak. I hate 
 her already. If I might but speak ! ' 
 
 ' Well, Phoebe,' said the squire to her presently, 
 * you must leave Guy for a few hours— or — till to- 
 morrow. Yes, I'll send him home to-morrow. The 
 young thing will have got reconciled by that time to 
 the place and to us all. But, bless me, what ails 
 you? I asked you before, but I don't think you 
 answered. What's amiss ? '
 
 282 GUY WATERMAN. 
 
 Phoebe had here as good an opportunity as she 
 could have desired, but somehow the old pride was 
 strong, and she had given to it a new kind of 
 sanctity by persuading herself that she ought to be 
 proud for Guy's sake ; so, instead of narrating 
 frankly her husband's misfortunes and their present 
 poverty, she would only say, after a search in her 
 pocket, and bringing forth the watch in a yellow 
 satin bag she had made for it, 
 
 ' Please, sir, would you mind receiving this back 
 to keep for a time, till — .' The squire was startled, 
 and for a moment looked angry ; but presently he 
 understood the case better, and said — 
 
 ' Phoebe, if there is one thing more than another 
 that I like to see in people when they come to me 
 on business of any kind, it is straightforwardness. 
 Now, you are not straightforward with me. You 
 can't suppose I am going to play the pawnbroker 
 with my own gift ; and if you need my help, why 
 don't you plainly say so, and let me judge for my- 
 self whether I can or cannot do what you wish ? ' 
 
 Phoebe had never before been thus spoken to by 
 him ; and whilst she felt the justice she winced
 
 NATURAL BUT UNWELCOME ADVICE. 283 
 
 under the severity of the words. But they only 
 confirmed her bad habit of reticence. She deter- 
 mined at once she would do nothing, ask for nothing, 
 except for Guy ; and she felt that she was thus 
 resenting, In the only way open to her, what had 
 been said. With a flushing cheek, and a hurried 
 and tremulous voice, she went on — 
 
 'The boy, sir; Guy.' 
 
 ' Yes ; what of him ? ' 
 
 * I'm afraid I can't keep him at school any longer ; 
 we are too poor, and that's what troubles me. It's 
 that I was thinking of when I thought we had better 
 part with the watch ; and then, sir, I hadn't the 
 heart to let it go, for what would he have thought 
 when he grew up to know of such a gift, and to 
 have lost it by no fault of his ? ' 
 
 'True, true ; and it was kind and careful of you, 
 Phoebe, to think and feel so. But, another time, 
 have more confidence in me. I don't pretend to say 
 beforehand I can do anything you may choose to 
 ask of me ; but I do say I am more likely to do it 
 by being told the whole truth at once.' 
 
 ' I am very sorry, sir, I am sure — '
 
 284 GUY WATERMAN. 
 
 'That's enough. Not a word more, Phoebe. 
 Well, now, go home, and make your mind easy 
 about the boy. Send him to school as usual, and 
 let the quarterly bill come to me. That will be 
 better than my sending the money to you. The 
 master will be only the more anxious to do his best 
 for your lad. I like Guy ; he's frank and fearless. 
 But, mind, don't spoil him ; don't educate him too 
 well for his station. He can't live the life of a 
 gentleman, you know ; he must work, and must 
 have a good trade. Don't forget that. AYhen he's 
 ready to be apprenticed, if you need my help come 
 to me again. But, I repeat, don't teach him to be 
 dissatisfied with the career before him by over-train- 
 ing. Another glass of wine ? No ! AYell, good- 
 by. Guy shall come back to-morrow, and now let 
 your mind be at ease.' 
 
 Phoebe curtsied and went away, but in a very 
 different frame of mind from what the squire sup- 
 posed. His kindness was rankling like poison in 
 her soul, for had he not said, * Don't educate him 
 too well for his station ; he can't live the life of a 
 gentleman ? ' And Phoebe, whose soul was absorbed
 
 NATURAL BUT UNWELCOME ADVICE. 285 
 
 in the ever-growing desire to make Guy aspire, and 
 to see him the * gentleman,' seemed to see an 
 enemy in the squire because he could not penetrate 
 instinctively into the truth of the boy's birth, and 
 remove the evils produced by her own guilt without 
 telling her it was guilt, or letting her endure any of 
 its natural consequences.
 
 CHAPTER XXV. 
 
 THE FISHPOND. 
 
 Lucy still held Guy's hand — and evidently did not 
 want to let it go — as he conducted her in the direc- 
 tion pointed out by the squire as leading to the 
 fish-pond. They crossed the court-yard, where the 
 little girl shrunk back suddenly in alarm as a proud 
 curveting horse was brought forth for exercise. 
 
 ' Perhaps that's for you,' said Guy. 
 
 ' Me ! ' exclaimed the timid little maiden, her 
 eyes opening more and more widely as she looked 
 to Guy to see if he were serious, and then at the 
 coal-black, beautiful animal, who arched his neck 
 and struck his feet out at the ground till he made 
 the sparks fly from the pavement. 
 
 ' Well, I don't suppose they'll put you on it yet — 
 not till you've learned to ride,' said Guy, looking at 
 her so coolly and yet with so much good-humoured
 
 THE FISHPOND. 287 
 
 maliciousness in his laughing eye, that Lucy began 
 to toss her head and cry out, 
 
 ^ Oh, you are a story-teller ! Now I shan't believe 
 a word you say.' 
 
 ' Just as you like — only let's get along. I wish 
 they'd let me ride him,' added Guy, looking wist- 
 fully after the beautiful creature as he was led away 
 by a groom. 
 
 ' Why, do you know how to ride him ? * 
 
 *No, but it don't matter; I'd soon find out; and 
 if he threw me two or three times I could get up 
 again.' Lucy looked at him and began to admire 
 his boyish courage, which seemed to her almost 
 superhuman. 
 
 Guy did not in the least notice her respectful 
 wohder, nor did he appear to think he had said any- 
 thing worthy of the slightest comment. And so 
 chatting they got to the iish-pond. 
 
 It was a place that would have delighted an 
 artist, a poet, or a lover of the more pictures(}ue re- 
 mains of antiquity. You saw at the first glance 
 that the pond was of very ancient construction. The 
 massive circular brickwork (measuring several yards
 
 288 GUY WATERMAN. 
 
 across) only just appearing above the soil of the 
 garden on its outside, but going down to a great 
 depth within ; the thick covering of green vegeta- 
 tion, chiefly mosses and small aquatic grasses (with 
 here and there a flower), that overspread the inner 
 surface of the brickwork, as seen through the trans- 
 parent water, and streamed out from every rift in 
 the structure ; the water-lilies on the surface that 
 seemed to have been undisturbed from time imme- 
 morial ; and, above all, the red, thick, succulent, 
 arching stems of the blackberries that shot out from 
 the ruin that overhung the pond on one side, and 
 swayed gracefully up and down, high over the lilies, 
 with every motion of the breeze, all helped to make 
 up a picture that at once fascinated these young 
 hearts. Lucy with a cry of joy, and Guy with a 
 more sedate expression of his pleasure, threw them- 
 selves down on the sward just at the rim, and 
 forgetting all about the fish, began to try to reach 
 the magnificent lilyflowers that were then blooming 
 abundantly. 
 
 ' Take care, Lucy ! that isn't the way to get 
 them. You'll be falling in, and the fishes will be
 
 THE FISHPOND. l89 
 
 eating you up, and I shall get hanged for it by the 
 sqnire. You kneel there; no— farther back; and 
 then give me your hand while I stretch forward. I 
 can reach a long way then, and you won't be in any 
 danger.* 
 
 * But you will.' 
 
 ' Silly I Of course I shan't if you hold ine fast and 
 keep far enough back.* 
 
 But just as these arrangements were carried suc- 
 cessfully into effect, and the first flower had been 
 safely brought to land, and Guy was going to get a 
 lot more, a servant, whom they had not noticed, 
 advanced and said angrily to Guy, 
 
 ' You musn't do that ! The pond's very deep. 
 The squire told me to see the young lady came to 
 no harm.' 
 
 Guy looked at the man, and the man looked at 
 him ; but if the latter expected any acknowledg- 
 ment of error as to the past, or promise of amend- 
 ment for the future, he was mistaken. Guy turned 
 to Lucy and said, 
 
 * Let's go to the tower ; ' and turning on his heel 
 
 took no more notice of the amazed attendant, who 
 VOL. I. u
 
 290 GUY WATEEMAN. 
 
 couldn't at all understand the ' impedence,' as he 
 subsequently called it when commenting on the 
 matter in the servants' hall, 'of that boy of the 
 Watermans, who didn't seem to have a bit of gen- 
 tility in him — no more manners than a pig — and 
 spoke to his betters jest as though he were one of 
 'em.' 
 
 The tower to which Guy now led the way was a 
 part of an old monastic structure that had stood on 
 the site many centuries ago. Its lower portion was 
 almost concealed by the earth that had in the course 
 of time been piled up against it to a height of 
 many feet, and made the upper part seem as though 
 it grew directly out of a gi^eat mound. All that 
 upper portion was so luxuriantly covered with ivy, 
 that one could only get a glimpse here and there of 
 the small but ornamental windows that had origin- 
 ally admitted light to the building. It was a com- 
 plete ruin, and could only be ascended in safety by 
 artificial aid, as the winding steps in the interior 
 were much broken. But Guy, after just one 
 word to Lucy, 'Stay here at the bottom till I try if 
 we can both get up,' was soon flying from point to
 
 THE FISHPOND. 291 
 
 point upwards, the very stones on which he rested 
 his feet toppling down an instant after he left them 
 with a great crash to the bottom, and alarming 
 Lucy so much that she called out, 
 
 ' Oh, do come down ! I'm sure you'll hurt your- 
 self ! ' But Guy, never troubling himself to reflect 
 how he was to get back, went on and up till he 
 reached the summit; where, looking over the battle- 
 ment, he began to call to Lucy to come out and 
 see. She heard and came ; and, as he waved his 
 cap, she waved her handkerchief in answer, but also 
 said, 
 
 * Oh, Guy, how will you get down again ? ' 
 
 * What do you say ? ' inquired Guy, unable to 
 distinguish her words and soft tones at the height 
 he had reached. 
 
 ' The stones keep falling inside. I'm sure you 
 can't get down safely. Don't try. Don't ! ' 
 
 ' Stop a bit ; let me see for myself!' shouted Guy, 
 and away he went. 
 
 Apparently he made a trial, and found the affair 
 
 difficult and dangerous. So he came back to the 
 
 battlement and called out laughingly, 
 
 u2
 
 292 GUY WATERMAN. 
 
 ' I'm taken prisoner ! You must get a basket and 
 a rope, and send me up plenty of things to eat. 
 Won't that be good fun ? ' 
 
 'Oh, Guy, what will you do?* cried the dis- 
 tressed little maiden. 'Stop! I'll call the man to 
 lielp you.' 
 
 ' If you do I'll jump down.' 
 
 ' No — no — no! ' 
 
 'Very well, then. Be quiet, and I'll find another 
 way.' 
 
 So saying, Guy> to the increasing fright of Lucy, 
 got over the battlement, and began to feel all about 
 the stems of the ivy, which reached to the top 
 of the tower. But apparently he did not care to 
 trust himself to their tender mercies, tightly as they 
 seemed to cling to the wall ; for, after a few un- 
 satisfactory experiments, he stopped, got back again 
 over the battlement, and seemed fairly defeated. 
 
 ' Guy, Guy, perhaps they can get you a very tall 
 ladder! Do stop. I am bo frightened.' Guy's 
 only answer was, 
 
 ' Look out down there ! I am coming.' He then 
 threw a cord with a stone fastened at the end
 
 THE FISHPOND. 293 
 
 towards the branch of a great walnut-tree that grew 
 near the tower. At first Lucy could not under- 
 stand what he wanted to do. But, after throwing 
 his cord two or three times, she saw it had got 
 entangled in the tree. Then she saw the cord 
 gradually tightening, and the branch following it, 
 nearer and nearer, towards the tower. But it was 
 a strong branch, and it was not easy to get it near 
 enough for Guy's purposes. He had to wind his 
 cord round one of the stone pieces of the battlement 
 to enable him to maintain his hold, and to rest for a 
 moment between each fresh pull. But at last, 
 when Guy's utmost strength failed to draw it any 
 nearer, he fastened his cord safely ; and then mea- 
 sured the distance from the battlement to the 
 nearest part of the branch that could be at all 
 trusted to bear his weight. It was probably not 
 more than three feet that he would have to leap to 
 clasp the overhanging bough, and had he been close 
 to the ground it would not have needed a boy of 
 Guy's courage to perform the feat safely. But 
 here, at this height, it was a very different thing. 
 If he missed the bough, or if it broke with him, it
 
 294 GUY WATERMAN. 
 
 was almost certain death. Guy looked at the bough 
 steadily. He said to himself, 
 
 * I know I can do it, and I will I ' 
 
 He leaped, caught the bough safely, but then 
 a thing happened which he had not calculated 
 on. He had intended, after once getting safe hold, 
 to have climbed along the branch, hanging below it, 
 till he reached the trunk, when he knew the rest 
 would be easy. But the cord with which he had 
 fastened the bough so far out of its natural place 
 was snapped by the sudden force of his leap, and off 
 went the bough, like a gigantic spring just let loose, 
 with the boy clinging to it, who heard, as he swung 
 through the air, Lucy's piercing shrieks. But, al- 
 though startled by the unexpectedness of the inci- 
 dent, and stunned by the violence with which his 
 head struck against some projecting snag, he clung 
 with such tenacity to his hold that he was not really 
 in danger for a single moment. And when he had 
 recovered from the shock he began to descend. He 
 did this a little more leisurely than he had intended, 
 but still with sufficient ease and vivacity to set all 
 Lucy's fears at rest. Presently he stood on the
 
 THE FISHPOND. 295 
 
 sward, looking a little pale, but his eye as full of 
 glad light as ever, and his voice not a jot less clieery 
 than its wont, as he said laughingly, 
 
 * I just did get an ugly knock on the head when 
 I was swung across so fast ! * 
 
 He had scarcely spoken before Mr. Dalrymple 
 appeared on the scene. He had been warned by 
 the servant (whom he had set to watch) that Guy 
 Waterman, after getting the young lady into no end 
 of ' scrapes,' had finished off by climbing to the top 
 of the tower, and * would most like break his neck ' in 
 getting down. The squire had hurried to the place, 
 and had been an unsuspected and delighted observer 
 of all Guy's later proceedings. Mr. Dalrymple, 
 as an old sportsman, rather liked than feared danger, 
 and he had a great love of the adventurous. So, 
 seeing Lucy was safe, he allowed Guy to take his 
 own course, satisfying himself as regards his duty to 
 Phoebe by the remark, 
 
 ' If it were my own son he should go through with 
 it, now that he has got into the mess. My own son I 
 Heaven help me, I wish he was ! Yes, he might 
 have been just such a boy — as handsome, fearless.
 
 296 GUY WATERMAN. 
 
 and full of spirit ; and he would have been just the 
 same age/ 
 
 As soon as Guy alighted, the squire went up to 
 him with a grave face. 
 
 ' How dare you risk your life in this way, sir ? 
 Eh ? Come, get in with you, and don't talk to me. 
 D'ye expect you're going to be another Marlborough 
 or a Sir Francis Drake ? ' 
 
 * I wish I might be,' said Guy, flushing. 
 
 * Pooh ! pooh ! Your business is to make boots 
 or shoes, grow cabbages, or breed pigs. By the 
 Lord ! though, you dog! you did that well. Didn't 
 he, Lucy ? ' 
 
 ' Y — yes,' timidly answered the girl, as she put 
 her hand in Mr. Dalrymple's and felt it clasped 
 warmly ; for the squire saw his recipe had been 
 successful. Yes, Lucy felt already at home, and 
 the kind-hearted squire began to think that the in- 
 troduction of this little maiden to his hous3 would 
 make Branhape henceforth a happier place. 
 
 And, feeling already a kindly sentiment towards 
 Guy, not only for his wife's sake, but on account of 
 the lad's own character, he could not but show him
 
 THE FISHPOND. 297 
 
 how much he appreciated the service he had done 
 him. 
 
 * Yes,' thought he, ' like loves like ; children can 
 best win children at times like these. Well, Guy/ 
 he continued, as they walked back towards the house, 
 * you have accomplished what I told you I wanted 
 to be done, if you didn't exactly proceed as I should 
 have advised. What can I do for you in return? 
 Have you thought better of it, and will you take 
 that guinea I offered you ? Guineas, my lad, are 
 uncommonly useful things, as you'll find out by-and- 
 by. Come, now speak out like a man. I want to 
 do you a pleasure in return for your success with 
 my little friend here. What shall it be ? ' 
 
 Guy looked at the speaker, then at Lucy, and at 
 last said, a little shily, 
 
 * Please may I come back again some day ? ' 
 
 * To be sure you shall. I'll send for you at holi- 
 day times, when you're home from school.' 
 
 Guy's bright face grew still brighter at this, but 
 he said no more. An hour or two later the three 
 were all in the little study together, Lucy sitting on 
 the squire's knee, a very picture of timid haj)])iness,
 
 298 GUY WATERMAN. 
 
 while Guy turned over a great book of pictures 
 almost as big as himself that was on the table, and 
 plied his questions so thick and fast as to the mean- 
 ing of everything represented in the plates that the 
 squire found his learning quite insufficient to satisfy 
 the busy little querist ; and he was obliged to confess 
 to himself, with a kind of laughing shame, that he 
 was much more frequently evading than answering 
 the knotty problems presented for solution. 
 
 Meanwhile, Mrs. Haramett, who looked only the 
 more handsome as she grew more cosy and domesti- 
 cated, made tea. As the squire sipped it and 
 handed his cup somewhat frequently he caught him- 
 self more than once wistfully perusing Guy's face, 
 and wonderincr as to the lad's future.
 
 CHAPTER XXVI. 
 
 PHCEBE HAS BAD DREAMS. 
 
 The soreness created by the squire's reproof of 
 her ambition gave to Phoebe, as she wandered 
 home after her interview with him, a fresh sense of 
 the bitterness of her own and her husband's poverty. 
 Somehow, she fancied her very care of Guy entitled 
 her to different treatment. AVell, she must go 
 back, and tell Stephen he must again go off tramp- 
 ing about the neighbourhood to seek work of any 
 kind, no matter how humble, while she borrows a few 
 shillings more from Susanna ; who, though she has 
 always lent Phcebe whatever she asked for, did it in 
 so business-like a manner, and was so punctual in 
 looking for repayment at the time promised, that 
 Phoebe hated to have recourse to her, and would, 
 but for Stephen's sake, have often preferred going 
 hungry to bed. Well, now she must again, and for
 
 300 GUY WATERMAN. 
 
 a larger sum, seek that young lady's aid ; who, with 
 admirable caution, had not only taken the advice of 
 the carrier to keep all her money locked up until 
 she was of age, but has even drawn less than she 
 was permitted to do for her board, lodging, and 
 education, as though she had a secret misgiving 
 that any spare cash would be in danger, while the 
 Watermans were in distress. 
 
 But Susanna was in such excellent spirits when 
 Phoebe got home, and was so kind and attentive, 
 and had prepared such a nice cup of tea for her 
 (some of her mother's hoarded gunpowder, worth 
 10s. a pound), that Phoebe's heart began to soften, 
 and before she had quite made up her mind how or 
 when to speak she was anticipated : 
 
 * Oh, Mrs. Waterman, I've got a guinea more 
 than I shall want till next quarter-day, and wish 
 you'd take care of it for me, and use it if you want, 
 and then pay me again when it's quite convenient.' 
 
 Phoebe looked at her fair face, drew her towards 
 her, kissed her, wiped away a tear from her own 
 eye, and began to enjoy her cup of tea w^ith some- 
 thing like peace of mind.
 
 PHCEBE HAS BAD DREAMS. 301 
 
 It was, however, as we shall see, but for a short 
 space. 
 
 Whether it was the green tea, of which Susanna, 
 in her amiable mood, had given her an uncommonly 
 strong dose, or the agitation of Phoebe's thoughts 
 all through the day, or the sense of disappointment 
 as to Guy's future career, or the grim vision of hard 
 poverty for years to come — whether it was one, or 
 more, or all of these things together that produced the 
 result, certainly Phoebe, though fatigued, was long 
 in getting to sleep that night ; and when die did suc- 
 ceed she kept starting and crying out, and waking 
 Stephen ; who, however, always went off again 
 placidly enough, and at last ceased even to be 
 disturbed. Poor man ! he had walked some 
 twenty miles since dinner, in the hope of getting a 
 little contract that would, as he said, have set him on 
 his legs again. ' But it had gone — worse luck ! — 
 when he got there.' 
 
 In the morning just at daybreak, Phoebe, after 
 a long period of unconsciousness, awoke. At first, 
 she seemed overpowered by a vague sense of 
 physical misery. Her every limb and joint ached,
 
 302 GUT WATERMAN. 
 
 her bead seemed unable to support itself, her eyes 
 were hot, her lips burning, her whole frame dry and 
 feverish. But the impressions of her physical state 
 passed off in the rapid oncoming of a host of 
 agitating recollections of her dreams. She tried to 
 recall them. It seemed to her that she had been 
 tossing at sea under an intensely black sky, when 
 a single star, that somehow seemed to belong to 
 Mrs. Dalrymple's face, looked down on her. Up 
 and down ceaselessly she went upon the tremendous 
 waves, and seemed to be always striving to reach 
 some object — what it was she could not recall. But 
 then, again, she seemed to see even from the deck 
 of the ship right into the workshop, and her eyeballs 
 strained as they beheld some form there moving 
 about, and touching the brick, and taking it from 
 the place ; and then a hand went in, and came 
 forth with the packet ; and then Phoebe had striven 
 to move, to cry out, but had simply moaned help- 
 lessly, while the thief went off with the prize. 
 These were the only ideas at all clear that PhcEbe 
 could extract from the recollection of her night of 
 miserable dreams ; and they were sufficient to make
 
 PHCLBE HAS BAD DKEAMS. 303 
 
 her sit up, staring in her bed, and looking round 
 her to be quite sure that they were dreams only. 
 The first grey light of morning was just visible. 
 Stephen slept peaceably by her side ; all was still in 
 the house. Yes, Phoebe had been dreaming plainly 
 enough ; and though she now felt her whole body 
 wet with a chilling perspiration (so great had been 
 her mental distress), yet it was only a dream, she 
 said to herself, and she must quiet herself, and go 
 to sleep again to get strength for the day. 
 
 But presently the remembrance of Susanna's 
 attempt on the workshop, one that had so nearly 
 ended fatally, came back forcibly to her mind, and 
 with it she recalled the amiable and generous mood 
 of last night. The two recollections made her so 
 restless that she got up and went to the window to 
 look out towards the workshop. She saw nothing, 
 and again tried to persuade herself that it was non- 
 sense for her to think that dreams ever truly warned 
 people of impending danger. Phoebe was convinced 
 that her fears were absurd, but she feared not the 
 less. At last she thought she would dress iierself, 
 go out as far as the workshop to be (^uite satisfied.
 
 304 GUY WATERMAN. 
 
 and, after a few minutes' walk in the cool air, come 
 back again, and then try to sleep, thus refreshed. 
 
 She hastily threw on her clothes, went out at the 
 door, listened to hear if Susanna was awake, 
 cautiously stole up the stairs and unclosed the door, 
 and drew near till she could hear the low measured 
 breathing of the sleeper. Reassured, and half- 
 inclined to laugh .at her own bad dream?, and the 
 folly they now led her into, she still thought, as she 
 was dressed, she would fulfil her purpose, and so be 
 more comfortable afterwards. She went down- 
 stairs into the darkness of the shuttered room, 
 found her way to the garden door, undid all its 
 fastenings with a careful hand, and she noticed, as 
 she did so, that they were exactly as she had left 
 them the night before — a fact that again convinced 
 her Susanna had not been out to the workshop ; for 
 she would have been too idle or careless, girl as she 
 was, Phoebe thought, to have refastened each of the 
 four or five troublesome and complicated parts of 
 the household system of door defence. 
 
 The air felt fresh as she stepped forth, and it 
 seemed to revive her, and to bring home still more
 
 PHCEBE HAS BAD DBEAMS. 305 
 
 forcibly to her aroused common sense the absurdity 
 of what she was doing, seeing that her very rest- 
 lessness about the workshop and her haunting it at 
 such unseemly hours was the very way to beget 
 suspicion of the cause, and so to endanger her 
 secret. But the wisest reasoners in the world 
 would have talked uselessly to Phoebe just then. . 
 She hadn't the least belief that anything was wrong, 
 but her bad dreams could not be got rid of till she 
 had again seen that the place of deposit of Mrs. 
 Dalrymple's package remained undisturbed. 
 
 She reached the workshop, went in, glanced 
 rapidly towards the brick, but could distinguish 
 nothing clearly in the morning dusk, except that 
 the brick was in its place. Reaching up as high as 
 she could she was able feel the surface, and that, 
 too, seemed all right ; but at that moment her foot 
 crushed something beneath her weight that sent a 
 kind of electric thrill through Phoebe's frame. It 
 was a lump of plaster, just such a thing as might 
 have fallen out if the brick had been recently dis- 
 turbed, and such as Phoebe felt in an instant could 
 hardly have been there in any other way. SIil' 
 
 TOL. I. X
 
 306 GUY WATERMAN. 
 
 could not rest after this until she had obtained a 
 light and looked at the minute marks that we have 
 already spoken cf as having been so noted and 
 studied by her, that it was certain the brick could 
 not be taken out and replaced but Phoebe would be 
 able to recognize some change, however slight it 
 might be. She glided back into the house to get 
 the tinder-box ; for she had taken care to have 
 Stephen's removed after Susanna's late visit, and 
 again came back. One moment and Phoebe saw 
 with unerring eye that the brick had been removed. 
 Miserable woman! The pangs she felt at that 
 instant might have gone far to make up a fitting 
 punishment for her crime. 
 
 But she calmed herself with a great effort, saying, 
 ' No, no ! I w^on't frighten myself till I'm quite 
 sure.' And then, getting the block of wood that 
 she had originally used in her prolonged examina- 
 tion of the wall-surface, she got up to the level of 
 the place. She touched the brick, and found that 
 it came forth almost without an effort, though the 
 wedge was still there, only, as she supposed, not 
 driven in as far as she had left it.
 
 PHCEBE HAS BAD DREAMS. 307 
 
 Before putting in her fingers she could not but 
 pause for a single instant to press her hands upon 
 her heart — it was beating so alarmingly — then she 
 felt, and then her bad dreams proved but too true : 
 there was nothing within ; the packet had been 
 taken away I 
 
 Phoebe dropped in a sitting posture on the ground, 
 too much overpowered by this new calamity to be 
 able suddenly to appreciate its whole force, or to 
 judge what she could do, if she could do anything, 
 to avert the consequences. Her hands dropped on 
 the ground, her head bowed lower and lower after 
 them, and in that posture of despair and humilia- 
 tion Phoebe remained for a few minutes, waiting 
 till the chaos of trouble that oppressed her should 
 grow a little clearer, and feeling meantime as 
 though she were reckless even if full exposure and 
 punishment came. 
 
 This however was but a momentary state of feeling. 
 
 Who had taken the packet ? Who had dared thus 
 
 to tamper with the trouble of Phoebe's life ? Where 
 
 was Susanna? Was she still in bed, simulating 
 
 x2
 
 308 GUY WATERMAN. 
 
 sleep ? Where could she have placed the packet ? 
 Had she opened it ? Ha ! Phoebe saw light. Per- 
 haps Susanna (for Phoebe began to feel sure she was 
 the thief) had only recently been here ; perhaps even 
 not many minutes before Phcebe herself, and so might 
 not have had time or courage to open the packet ; or 
 perhaps in her cunning she might have thought it 
 dangerous even to know any more at first than that 
 the secret was in her power. 
 
 This was but a poor reed to lean on, but it was 
 all that Phoebe could discover. Well, how 
 should she proceed? Should she go at once to 
 Susanna and try alike threats or cajolements to get 
 the truth from her, just as circumstances dictated ? 
 Or should she watch her so closely from that very 
 moment that she would be sure to surprise her 
 before long looking at the packet, or doing some- 
 thing that would indicate the new place of its con- 
 cealment, if, indeed, Susanna were the guilty party ? 
 Guy was away. Phoebe felt devoutly thankful for 
 that. No suspicion of him, therefore, could exist. 
 Her husband was equally clear to her mind of any 
 participation. There remained, therefore, so it
 
 PHCEBE HAS BAD DREAMS. 309 
 
 seemed, only Susanna who could have exposed 
 Phoebe to these new anxieties and dangers. 
 
 * If they found me out,' Phoebe said once to her- 
 self, with a sickly smile, * could they hang me, I 
 wonder ? ' On the whole, she thought, probably 
 not. But she knew that men and women were hung 
 for stealing a sheep ; and she had heard somebody 
 say that there was many an old law that might 
 suddenly be brought up to hang people for crimes 
 they didn't know even to be punishable. Phoebe 
 laughed hysterically to herself as she saw rising in 
 her mind the picture of her own execution for child- 
 stealing ; but she had got used to unreal horrors, 
 and so the vision faded harmlessly away as she 
 went slowly back to the cottage, pondering upon 
 the question — How should she deal with Susanna ? 
 A sudden and decisive step seemed her only chance. 
 
 Phoebe's first proceeding was to go direct to Su- 
 sanna's bed, put her hand on that young lady's 
 shoulders, and say to her — seemingly asleep though 
 she was — in a harsh, peremptory voice.
 
 810 GUY WATERMAN. 
 
 ' You have taken something of mine; give it to me.' 
 
 Susanna opened her eyes, sat up in bed^ looking 
 greatly alarmed, and stared helplessly about her, not 
 having heard or understood apparently the v.ords 
 that had been said. But Phoebe meant to make 
 the very most of her desperate measure, so she re- 
 peated to the bewildered-looking girl in still harsher 
 tones the words, 
 
 * You have taken something of mine I Give it 
 back to me instantly.' 
 
 ' Something of yours, Mrs. Waterman ! ' exclaimed 
 Susanna, in a voice so full of surprise that Phcebe, 
 in spite of herself, began to doubt whether indeed 
 Susanna could be the culprit But it so happened 
 that that young lady on reflection remembered more 
 than one thing belonging to Phcebe that she had 
 coveted and taken unlawful possession of, though 
 not exactly with the intention of stealing. So pre- 
 sently she said, 
 
 ' If you mean that pretty glass bottle of yours, it 
 is in the drawer there. I only borrowed it to put 
 some oil in, and because I thought I would like to 
 put it on my dressing-table.'
 
 PHCEBE HAS BAD DREAMS. 311 
 
 * Was this artfulness or simple truth ? ' Phoebe 
 asked herself, as she turned away baffled, and 
 thought, ' If it is not her, I am only making mat- 
 ters worse.' So, after a painful pause, she went on, 
 
 ' Oh, well, I don't want it now ; only you should 
 ask me,' said Phoebe. Presently she returned to 
 the charge by saying, as she looked searchingly in 
 the girl's face, * Didn't I hear you stirring about the 
 house a while ago ? ' 
 
 * Me, Mrs. Waterman ! ' ejaculated Susanna. 
 ' I've been asleep ever since I got into bed until you 
 waked me.' 
 
 * Well, I'm sorry I disturbed you. Try to get off 
 again. I've had such bad dreams all night, and was 
 obliged to get up, and — and then I missed the little 
 bottle which Stephen gave me before we were mar- 
 ried. Good-night, dear — or, I should say, good- 
 morning.' And so they parted. 
 
 Phoebe went downstairs, not to her own bedroom, 
 but into the dark sitting-room beneath, and felt for a 
 chair, and there sat down — her soul, alas ! far darker 
 than the place in which she sat. What was she to do ? 
 Either Susanna knew nothing at all about the packet
 
 312 GUT WATERMAN. 
 
 or she was, indeed, a monster of subtlety and decep- 
 tion. Which was it ? Phoebe could not tell. She 
 knew only she was baffled; and that her whole 
 future, and possibly Guy's, might now be depending 
 upon her courage, skill, and presence of mind. Yet 
 what could she do ? She could not say to Susanna, 
 ' I hid a packet in the workshop ; you or some one 
 has taken it away this very night.' And if it were 
 not Susanna, who else could it be ? 
 
 She sat there in the darkness, wearyingly going 
 over and over the same ceaseless round of self-ques- 
 tioning, and getting no glimpse of a satisfactory 
 reply. One thing, however, she determined to do- 
 to examine all Susanna's stores, and, if she could not 
 do so at once in secresy, then to acknowledge she 
 suspected her of taking something more than the 
 little bottle, and so insist upon a complete search. 
 Phoebe thought it even possible that, thus pressed, 
 Susanna might prefer to give up the packet — opened 
 or unopened, as it might be— rather than allow of 
 such an examination. 
 
 She went upstairs to get some old keys that she 
 remembered to have in a trunk where she guarded a
 
 PH(EBE HAS BAD DREAMS. 313 
 
 few valuables, and which she kept always locked. 
 As she passed up the stairs, she thought she heard 
 a rustle of clothes, and then the soft shutting of a 
 door which must be Susanna's. What did that 
 mean? Was the girl watching her? Again 
 Phoebe's strong convictions returned, and she felt 
 roused to fury at the thought that the girl should 
 have dared so to play with her. But she took no 
 notice for the moment, and went softly to her trunk 
 so as not to wake Stephen, who was still asleep, and 
 she unlocked and lifted the lid and put in her hand, 
 when, wonder upon wonder, she felt something that 
 sent a thrill through her very blood. It was the 
 packet ! — she knew it as she clasped it, for she had 
 felt it too often not to know it as accurately by the 
 feel as a blind man knows the tools he works with or 
 the clothes he wears. 
 
 The packet there I In Phoebe's own chamber ! 
 In her own trunk ! What miracle was this ? Phoebe 
 drew it out, went towards the light of the window, 
 and saw with inexpressible relief that the seal was 
 certainly unbroken. The wax was cracked all 
 over, but there was still the delicate little impress
 
 314 GUY WATERMAN. 
 
 that Mrs, Dalrymple had given to it by her finger- 
 ring. Well, that at least was something. Phoebe 
 sighed, but grew better from that moment — felt 
 more able to battle with the trouble now that she 
 knew that whatever might be suspected nothing still 
 could be known. She began to reflect : — 
 
 Susanna then, after all, had discovered the hid- 
 ing-place, had taken away the package, but had been 
 disturbed by Phoebe herself before she had had time to 
 take the benefit of her cunning and pertinacity; and to 
 escape further question, had conceived in the moment 
 of danger the bold and skilful, but impudent idea of 
 putting the packet into Phoebe's owm possession. Of 
 course, then, she would stick to her previous story, 
 and know nothing whatever of the packet. It must 
 have been Susanna whom she had heard on the 
 stairs gliding back to her room, just in time to 
 escape discovery. 
 
 Further reflection convinced Phoebe that Susanna's 
 action was as consummately designed as it must have 
 been promptly and boldly carried out. There were, 
 in any case, two persons concerned in the deception 
 going on — Phoebe herself who had hidden the pack-
 
 PHCEBE HAS BAD DREAMS. 315 
 
 age, and the unknown discoverer who had thus seen, 
 handled, and given it back. * Yes,' thought Phoebe, 
 * she thinks I am sure to be silent for my own 
 sake, even if I know it is she who now shares my 
 secret.' 
 
 Phcebe put the packet into her pocket, and went 
 down to open the shutters and get ready the break- 
 fast. To return to bed in the hope of sleep was out 
 of the question. She wanted to see Susanna in the 
 light of day, to look at her face, listen to her voice, 
 and try if she could not in some unguarded moment 
 yet get an acknowledgment from her of what she had 
 done ; and so, at least, guard Phoebe from any mis- 
 direction of her thoughts and fears. 
 
 When breakfast was ready she called Stephen and 
 Susanna, and went out to walk a bit in the little strip 
 of garden ground in front of the house. A neigh- 
 bour was in the adjoining garden hanging out clothes 
 from the wash. The two women exchanged greet- 
 ings. After a word or two on indifferent topics, the 
 woman said, 
 
 * I bin up almost all night with the toothache, and 
 as I couldn't sleep, I thought I might as well work,
 
 316 GUY WATEBMAN. 
 
 and so I bin hard at it since two o'clock. And you, 
 Mrs. Waterman, I see'd, was about. I began to 
 think something was amiss when I see'd you go 
 twice into the field towards the workshop.' 
 
 Phoebe ! Twice into the field ! What did the 
 woman mean ? She had been once only ; it must 
 have been Susanna that had been seen the first time. 
 Perhaps now she could get to know with certainty 
 the fact she only suspected. 
 
 * No, not me, neighbour,' said Phoebe. ' I went 
 out once, for I felt ill, and thought the fresh air would 
 revive me, and went to the workshop merely because I 
 thought I might as well go that way as any other.' 
 
 * Well, Mrs. Waterman, but if it wasn't you, then 
 it was your ghost.' 
 
 ' And how was I dressed ? ' asked Phoebe, with a 
 hollow kind of laugh. 
 
 ' Just as you are now. I couldn't tell colours, 
 but I could swear to the figure. But you know 
 well enough, Mrs. Waterman, that it was you ; 
 and, as you've a good right to go as often as you 
 please to your husband's shop, I don't see why you 
 should deny it, and treat me as if I lied.'
 
 PHOEBE HAS BAD DREAMS. 317 
 
 Phoebe grew more and more confounded, but, 
 while trying to say something to soothe her neigh- 
 bour's wounded feelings, she remarked, 
 
 * If it was me I must ha' got up in my sleep, 
 opened the door in my sleep, and walked out in my 
 sleep, and got back in my sleep, and shut up the 
 house safely again in my sleep, and got back to my 
 bed in my sleep.' 
 
 * Surely the best place for you, Mrs. Waterman, 
 under the circumstances,' observed the woman, who 
 began to notice the earnestness of Phoebe's manner, 
 and to feel for the trouble that this incident seemed to 
 cause her ; so she tried to comfort Phoebe by saying, 
 
 * Most like, then, you were asleep. A brother of 
 mine used often to get up in the night and go on 
 with his work just where he had left it off in the 
 day ; and, if you'll believe me, one sort of work 
 was as good as the other. So he has often told me 
 himself. Well, Fra going in to breakfast. And 
 I'm sure I ha' earned it this once.' 
 
 Phoebe saw her go, and slowly began to receive 
 the new and strange hope this conversation had 
 called up. Yet what did the hope mean ?
 
 318 GUY WATERMAN. 
 
 Why, nothing less than this, that she had herself 
 gone to the workshop, taken out the brick {how she 
 shuddered to think of, it seemed all so inconceivable 
 and alarming to her), removed the packet, replaced 
 the brick so carefully that not even Phoebe could 
 distinguish any change till she examined the mark 
 minutely by the aid of the candle, and so gone 
 back home. 
 
 Up and down the garden she paced vainly 
 striving to realize all this. Of course, she could 
 understand a good deal of what had been so diffi- 
 cult if it were true. Her agitation the previous 
 day had brought up into renewed life the vivid 
 recollection of Phcebe's most exciting periods, and 
 especially those connected with the storm, and with 
 her anxiety for a safe hiding-place for the packet. 
 She remembered that she had often at night, as she 
 lay in bed, thought to herself, would it not be 
 better to remove the packet and put it into her own 
 trunk, which she had always been accustomed to 
 keep sacred from every eye ? 
 
 If now she could but be sure — quite sure — that 
 it was herself who had done all this ! Terrible as
 
 PHCEBE B.X3 BAD DSEAMS. 319 
 
 the new vista opened by the incident, still the 
 danger in that direction was distant, and would 
 be cheaply purchased by a restoration of her 
 old belief that no one but herself knew of the ex- 
 istence of the packet. How could she get any 
 more light upon the subject? Was there any 
 mode of making herself certain that she had really 
 been twice to the workshop that night? 
 
 She tried to ^imagine all sorts of possible occur- 
 rences as accompanying her visit, and some one of 
 which might have left some material proof of itself. 
 Would her dress — her shoes — bear any tokens that 
 might reveal what she wanted to know? No — 
 because she was unable to distinguish between what 
 might have happened on the supposed fir^t visit 
 from that which might have happened on the second 
 and certain visit. 
 
 She went in to breakfast. Susanna was already 
 at the table, looking as fresh and lovely in her own 
 peculiar kind of loveliness as if she had never had 
 a trouble in the world. She smiled on Phoebe, and 
 handed her a cup of fragrant coffee, and appeared 
 altogether so perfectly self-possessed, that Phoebe
 
 320 GUY WATERMAN. 
 
 could not but think, * I was unjust to her. She 
 knows nothing after all — she's done nothing.' 
 
 But Phoebe continued to revolve in her mind the 
 question, *How can I be sure? I must be sure. 
 I dare not put the packet back unless I am quite 
 certain. And yet I might as well put it into her 
 own box as into mine, now she is in the house : she 
 is so prying and inquisitive. I know she wants to 
 get a sight of the inside of my box, for quite other 
 reasons than wanting to look for secret packets.' 
 
 While Phoebe mechanically took her breakfast, 
 scarcely saying a word either to Susanna or 
 Stephen, her eyes happened to fall upon a pair of 
 slippers by the fireside. In an instant she re- 
 membered that she had not left them there last 
 night. What did that mean ? They were just 
 where she was accustomed to put them if they 
 happened to get wet. Was it possible that she had 
 gone the first time in these slippers, had come back 
 with them damp, and had taken them oflP, in her 
 unconscious state, to put by the fireplace to get dry, 
 just as though the fire were then burning ? The 
 ground was moist, and favoured the supposition.
 
 PHCEBE HAS BAD DREAMS. 321 
 
 It was certain she had not worn them on her 
 waking visit, for she remembered quite well 
 that, not finding her slippers by her bedside when 
 she got up, she had put on the boots she still wore, 
 which were in a neighbouring corner. In that she 
 could not be mistaken ; she had not changed the 
 boots since she got up, that fact was clear. If now 
 there were marks on the ground in the way to the 
 workshop corresponding to the slipper, the sole of 
 which was very different to that of her boots, then, 
 indeed, she might be sure ; for not only were the 
 slippers too large for Susanna, who had a curiously 
 small foot, and who would be certain not to choose 
 such inconvenient appendages to her stealthy steps 
 when going on a secret expedition, but there was 
 besides the evidence of the neighbour, which, if 
 corroborated, might be taken as decisive. 
 
 Watching for an opportunity to steal away before 
 anyone else could go to the workshop, she took up 
 her slippers, and then, as if without thought, hold- 
 ing them in her hand, made some excuse about 
 wanting a new blind-stick from the workshop, and 
 
 hurried off to look for any footmarks that might 
 VOL. I. Y
 
 322 GUY WATERMAN. 
 
 testify as to the person who had so mysteriously 
 haunted the place during the night. It occurred to 
 Phoebe, as she went along, peering cautiously into 
 every bit of depression she saw on the soil, that 
 possibly she might find a mark that neither her own 
 boot nor the slipper would account for, and that 
 thus she might again be brought back to the idea 
 of Susanna's presence and intervention. 
 
 For a time she could find scarcely a single 
 clearly distinguishable footprint, and those which at 
 last she did discover she knew to be from her own 
 boot. But close to the workshop, and a little aside 
 from the door, as though the midnight visitor had 
 been alarmed and stepped a little out of the course 
 to Hsten, she saw a print that no boot of hers had 
 ever impressed. She stooped; she examined it 
 with the aid of her slipper for a comparison — she 
 saw they fitted perfectly. It was, then, Phcebe 
 herself who had inflicted all this misery upon 
 herself; and during which she had so nearly ex- 
 posed her true position to the very girl from whom, 
 above all other persons (the squire and Guy alone 
 excepted), she wished to keep it concealed !
 
 PHCEBE HAS BAD DREAMS, 323 
 
 With a hurried glance towards the cottage to see 
 that no one was following, Phoebe stepped into 
 the workshop and replaced the packet. She thus 
 showed how thoroughly satisfied she was that 
 Susanna had had no part in the business ; that she 
 still knew nothing; that all this had been but a 
 false alarm ; that her bad dreams had created the 
 danger of which they warned her. 
 
 On returning to the cottage she said to Stephen 
 and Susanna : 
 
 ' An odd thing has happened to-night. I bin to 
 
 the workshop just now to see if I can make it out. 
 
 Our neighbour tells me she saw me go twice into 
 
 the field towards the workshop. And I knew I'd 
 
 bin once, for I had a dreadful night, full of bad 
 
 dreams, and not being able to sleep I went out 
 
 into the garden at daybreak, and then into the 
 
 fields, just to while away time, for I didn't 
 
 want to wake you. Of course I wouldn't believe 
 
 her, and I laughed, till I saw she was getting 
 
 angry. But she was right enough, I'm sorry to 
 
 say.' 
 
 * Why, you don't mean it, Mrs. Waterman, that 
 
 y2
 
 324 GUY WATERMAN. 
 
 you've been walking in your sleep ! How horrid ! 
 I think I should have died if I'd met you.' 
 
 * Well, it isn't pleasant, either for oneself or for 
 other people,' observed Phoebe, with a wan smile. 
 
 ' But how do you know it's true ? ' asked Stephen. 
 
 * Because my slippers there tell the tale. They've 
 left their mark near the workshop door, and I'm 
 quite sure I didnt put them on when I got up in my 
 waking state, for I couldn't find them, and so got 
 my boots, and they've never been off since. Take 
 the slippers and go and look, Susy. You'll find it 
 as I say.' 
 
 Susanna ran off, so full of the bit of excitement, 
 that Phoebe again felt sure that the girl was inno- 
 cent of any of the night's doings. But as soon as 
 she had disappeared, Phoebe put her hand on her 
 husband's arm, and said to him with a sadness of 
 tone that touched him deeply, 
 
 ' Stephen, I'm very miserable, but don't let me 
 get worse. Don't let me go wandering about the 
 country in this fashion. You won't, will you ? Tell 
 me you won't. You'll watch me — wake me — lock 
 me in, if necessary. Speak ! say you will.'
 
 PHOEBE HAS BAD DREAMS. 325 
 
 Stephen looked at his poor haggard-faced wife as 
 he repUed, 
 
 ' To be sure I will ; don't you be afeard of that. 
 I'll fasten the windows, so that you can't undo them, 
 for I've heerd as how your cunning sleepwalkers get 
 very clever that way, and I'll lock the door the last 
 thing, and hide the key. Come, come, lass, cheer 
 up ! We won't alius have such hard times. Per- 
 haps the doctor can tell us o' summut that^ll prevent 
 you from getting into that way agin. It doesn't 
 follow that because you done it once you're to go on 
 adoing it.' | 
 
 Phoebe's lips moved inarticulately, as if in reply ; 
 a moment later, she dropped on the floor
 
 CHAPTER XXVII. 
 
 THE FUTURE LADY OF BRANHAPE. 
 
 The commotion produced by Phoebe's fall brought 
 Susanna downstairs to help ; and she and Stephen 
 set to work with restoratives ; but they were spared 
 further trouble by Phoebe's recovery. With another 
 of those long-drawn sighs, which seemed to have 
 become not so much an evidence of mental distress 
 as an effort of the body for physical relief from some 
 kind of unendurable oppression, she opened her 
 eyes, looked with a frightened look in the faces of 
 Stephen and Susanna, then, gradually remembering 
 all that had passed, she strove to get up, and, with 
 the aid of Stephen's encircling arm, managed to re- 
 seat herself in the chair from which she had fallen. 
 
 'Where's Guy?' she asked, in a feeble voice. 
 * Hasn't he come back yet ? I wish he was here.' 
 
 ' Shall I fetch him ? ' asked Stephen, whose better
 
 THE FUTURE LADY OF BRANHAPE. 327 
 
 nature had been greatly moved by his wife's illness 
 as well as by her previous sorrow. 
 
 ' No, no,' replied Phoebe ; ' I shall be better 
 soon, I dare say.' 
 
 Her eyes turned towards Susanna, who knelt 
 close by, looking up with the tenderest interest and 
 sympathy, and apparently quite unconscious that 
 Phoebe had ever suspected, ever beaten her. But 
 Phoebe, though she responded by a faint smile, and 
 by a pressure of the hand to the kindness and atten- 
 tion of both, could not help letting her head keep 
 turning towards the door, as though longing to see 
 it opened ; and they could perceive that she listened 
 to every passing step with anxious solicitude, hoping, 
 no doubt, it might be Guy's. 
 
 And he came at last, bounding along the garden 
 in the highest possible spirits, and shouting out, as 
 he threw open the door, 
 
 ' Mother ! mother, where are you ? ' But in a 
 moment every spark of gaiety was extinguished as 
 he saw the sad group from amidst which his mother, 
 the central figure, looking so wan and ill, held out her 
 hand with a soft tearful smile, as much as to say —
 
 328 GUY WATERMAN. 
 
 ' Come to me, I cannot talk.' 
 
 And then Guy heard all about the bad dreams of 
 the night, and how his mother had walked in her 
 sleep, and been so frightened when she waked that 
 she had dropped down like one dead, for such was 
 Susanna's brief summary of all that we have pre- 
 viously described. But neither Guy nor Phoebe 
 was in reality listening to Susanna ; he was leaning 
 against his mother breast, his head lying on her 
 shoulder, her arm fondly entwined round his body, 
 w^hile she whispered in answer to his troubled look 
 and occasionally inquisitive eye, and to the slow, 
 single tear that she saw gathering there, 
 
 * Don't mind, darling ; I shall be better soon.' 
 
 But Phoebe was more deeply injured than she 
 was aware of When, a little later, she tried to 
 stand up and to walk she was obliged to fall wearily 
 back again and murmur, 
 
 ' I think I'll go to bed. But I shall be better 
 soon.' 
 
 And they got her to bed. And they sent Guy 
 for the doctor, who could not get rid of the little 
 fellow by any promises ; no, he ' must come back
 
 THE FUTUEE LADY OF BRANHAPE. 329 
 
 if he pleased, with him.' And the doctor, struck by 
 the boy's earnestness, went with him, hearing on the 
 road from Guy all that the latter could tell him 
 about his mother^s illness. He grew grave when he 
 heard of the sleep-walking, and said nothing more to 
 Guy. 
 
 But after he had seen Phoebe, felt her pulse, and 
 heard what she and the others had to say, he 
 managed, on one pretence and another, to get 
 everybody out of the room except himself and the 
 ailing woman, and then he said to her, as he sat 
 down in the chair by her side and took her hand, 
 
 * Excuse my speaking to you a little plainly. It's 
 my duty, and it's to do you good. You have some 
 secret mental trouble — is it not so ? ' 
 
 Phoebe shook her head, but her lips quivered and 
 her face grew visibly whiter. 
 
 * Well, you know best, only let me say a few 
 words. If this kind of thing — this sleep-walking — 
 is not stopped at once it is impossible to say into what 
 trouble it may not lead you and yours. Take my 
 advice, confide the matter, whatever it may be, to 
 your friends ; talk it over with them, and you'll
 
 330 GUY WATERMAN. 
 
 soon get out of this morbid state. I can help you, 
 by my professional advice, if you only deter- 
 mine to help yourself at the same time. Doctor 
 and patient, my good woman, must co-operate, or 
 no good will be done. There, now, keep yourself 
 quiet ; I shall send you some simple medicines, and 
 when you've taken them I'll see how you get on. 
 Good-morning ; don't stir ; I can find my way out, I 
 hope, without your help. When I come to-morrow 
 just you say to me, " Doctor, I've done as you bade 
 me," and then I shall know you'll soon be all right 
 again. It's your mind that's out of order rather 
 than your body. Good-by ! ' 
 
 And, so saying, the doctor took his leave, having 
 added only a new pang to the many sorrows that 
 afflicted Phoebe. * Who w^as she to confide such a 
 secret to ? ' she asked herself bitterly. To the 
 squire ? who, if he believed her, would send her, if 
 he could, next day to gaol. To Stephen? whose 
 brain would become more hopelessly muddled than 
 ever by the knowledge of so perilous a matter. To 
 Susanna ? who would wish personally to profit by 
 the disclosure ; and who, in any case, could render
 
 THE FUTUEE LADY OF BEANHAPE. 331 
 
 no material aid to a diseased mind like Phoebe's. 
 Or to Guy ? who, boy as he was, and loving, as he 
 had always exhibited himself towards his supposed 
 mother, was obviously incapable of bearing the re- 
 sponsibility of so tremendous a secret. Besides — 
 and this was the eternal stumbling-block — what con- 
 fession (which even to seem to be true must involve 
 penitence) was possible without restitution ? The 
 boy had entwined himself round her very heart- 
 strings, and was she now to lose him — and for what? 
 to be herself treated probably as a felon, certainly 
 as an infamous woman, who might be left slowly to 
 die amid the execrations of the world, unless her 
 misery impelled her to find a quicker end. 
 
 But not the less did the doctor's talk lead Phoebe 
 to wish it were possible that she might find some one 
 to whom she could disburden herself. If Susanna 
 were older, and either married or engaged to some 
 respectable man of her own rank in life, then, indeed, 
 Phoebe might consider seriously the question of 
 taking her into her counsel ; but at present, for 
 every reason, such a course was impracticable. And 
 then Phoebe's thoughts once more wandered back to
 
 332 GUY WATERMAN. 
 
 the old and perpetually-recurring question— * Did 
 Susanna know anything after all ? Was she con- 
 scious of any of Phoebe's proceedings during this 
 last eventful night ? ' 
 
 We might answer the question by a variety of 
 suggestions and speculations, all based upon the idea 
 of letting the reader judge for himself, and probably 
 leaving him, as it is the habit of novelists to do, quite 
 undecided after all. We will not (on the present 
 occasion at least) avail ourselves of this ingenious 
 device of fictionists ; we will, on the contrary, like 
 straightforward and veracious chroniclers, proceed 
 now to show just what Susanna was doing and think- 
 ing on that same remarkable night. 
 
 From the moment of Phoebe's going away to the 
 Hall with the boy, Susanna had found it impossible 
 to keep her thoughts from the workshop and its at- 
 attractive secret — a secret which it guarded so 
 jealously from her longing eyes. Again and again 
 she dallied with the idea of venturing to it once 
 more, if Stephen should take an after-dinner nap, as 
 he often did, now that he was out of work and out 
 of heart. But the previous beating had terribly
 
 THE FUTURE LADY OF BRAXHAPE. 333 
 
 shaken Susanna's not very courageous spirit ; and 
 she felt sure the punishment then received was only 
 the earnest of a far severer one in store if Phoebe 
 again caught her similarly engaged. So she went 
 on rummaging over her treasures, pretending, like 
 a child at play, to find for the first time some very 
 choice valuable, although knowing well enough she 
 had found and gloated over it already. Then she 
 selected things wherewith to decorate her chamber ; 
 but it was all in vain ; these well-worn pleasures 
 began to pall ; it was the workshop alone she could 
 feel interested in, and its possibly precious secret. 
 
 And when Stephen after dinner, instead of taking 
 a nap or going himself to the workshop, suddenly 
 announced his purpose to go to a man, some ten 
 miles off, who he had heard wanted to put out a 
 little job by contract that would occupy Stephen a 
 good many weeks, it seemed to Susanna that she 
 might never again have so good a chance as this — 
 broad daylight, unrestricted intercourse with the 
 workshop, no neighbours moving about, Phoebe and 
 Stephen both far away. It quite excited her to think 
 of it all. She could not, however, for a long time
 
 334 GUY WATERMAN. 
 
 make up her mind ; but at last she thought she 
 would risk it, and venture again within the for- 
 bidden precinct. 
 
 But her search was as useless as before. And 
 had she been far more patient and inventive, had 
 she been capable of exhibiting a dogged industry in 
 the search, instead of the fitful, and we might say, 
 fretful examination that alone suited her, she would 
 not easily have discovered the place or the thing she 
 sought, since both were out of her reach. The 
 bench was too heavy for her to move, and the mov- 
 able block of wood not high enough. She was 
 conscious of this difficulty, and tried to overcome it 
 by pushing at each of the bricks regularly round, 
 tier by tier, with the rounded end of the same long 
 tool that Phoebe had used. But though no longer 
 a child in mind, she had not yet got to a woman's 
 strength of purpose or will. She was soon fatigued, 
 and gave over (a second time) the unprofitable task. 
 So, after an hour or more had been expended in a 
 desultory kind of examination, interrupted by many 
 a pause and cry of vexation, as she looked round and 
 wondered where Phoebe could have found her hiding-
 
 THE FUTURE LADY OF BRANHAPE. 335 
 
 place, slie took her way back to the house, ghid to 
 perceive that no one had come across her, so as to 
 be able to speak subsequently of her whereabouts. 
 
 When she got into her bedroom she laid down, 
 fairly wearied with her efforts, and at once angry 
 and depressed by her failure, which seemed final. 
 She fell asleep, and did not wake again for several 
 hours. She then heard Stephen moving about below. 
 He had just come home, and was lighting a bit of 
 fire. Presently she heard Phoebe also enter, and 
 she rapidly washed her face, and tidied her hair, and 
 went down to carry out, in capital spirits, a new idea 
 that had crossed her mind during the last few min- 
 utes. It had occurred to her that Phoebe must go 
 now and then to the place where she had deposited 
 her secret hoard (whatever that might consist of). 
 Yes, she thought, she must go to it, if it were only 
 to be quite sure it had not been meddled with. 
 Could not Susanna then learn what she wanted by 
 secretly dogging Phoebe's footsteps, and so getting 
 to see what it was that Phoebe did in the workshop ? 
 The girl was delighted at the thought, and it was 
 the hope of success from it that had made her so
 
 336 GUY WATERMAN. 
 
 very amiable to Phoebe on her return from the Hall 
 as to offer her the loan of the guinea, and to bring 
 out for Phoebe's use her mother's costly gunpowder. 
 
 * How do I know,' thought Susanna, * but that she 
 may be going to the workshop this very night ? It's 
 very likely, after she's been to the Hall on such 
 mysterious business that she wouldn't tell me any- 
 thing about it.' 
 
 So, after Stephen had gone to bed, excessively 
 fatigued and sleepy, Susanna began to yawn, and 
 say she thought she would go too. With a loving 
 kiss, and a ' Good-night ! ' she went. 
 
 But not to sleep. She had slept ; and she was 
 delighted now to find that she could watch, if neces- 
 sary, for some hours ; so, while she undressed, and 
 moved about, and made the usual noises (as well, at 
 least, as she could think of them), she quietly ar- 
 ranged that she would be ready either for bed, if it 
 was necessary for her to get suddenly into it, or to 
 follow Phoebe to the workshop, if, as she divined, the 
 latter would have, or would make, occasion to 
 go there to-night, either in connection with her 
 business at the Hall, or to satisfy herself about
 
 THE FUTURE LADY OF BRANHAPE. 337 
 
 Susanna's possible proceedings while she had been 
 away. 
 
 So, having prepared for bed, even to the putting 
 on of her nightgown, she placed ready at her hand a 
 large, thick, winter cloak, that could be put on or 
 thrown off in an instant. She then undid and slightly 
 opened the door, which, on coming upstairs, she 
 had rather noisily shut and fastened ; and then lay 
 down, not to sleep or to rest, but only that it might 
 be seen, if necessary, that she had gone to bed at the 
 usual time. And there she stopped, listening for 
 a long period to Phoebe's every movement. Once 
 or twice, after a considerable pause, Susanna heard 
 her sigh heavily, and then she hoped that something 
 was going to be done to which that sigh was the pre- 
 lude. But, after a little more delay, she heard Phcebe 
 go to the street door and fasten it carefully, though 
 Susanna was cunning enough to doubt whether all 
 she heard was not mere pretence, and that the door 
 might really be open at that very moment. Susanna, 
 could not help laughing at the thought, and saying 
 to herself, 
 
 ' That wouldn't have imposed on my clever 
 
 VOL. I. z
 
 338 GUY WATERMAN. 
 
 mother, nor will it trick me. I wouldn't be sur- 
 prised to hear her in a minute slipping out into the 
 garden ; but I am ready for her.' 
 
 But instead of this Phoebe came up to bed, slowly 
 and wearily ; and again Susanna heard her sigh 
 deeply as she went into her own room. And here 
 it is noticeable how cunning may occasionally obtain 
 the end that is denied to real intellectual skill. A 
 wiser listener in Susanna's position would have felt 
 sure, from the very tone of that sigh — the inexpres- 
 sible sadness of spirit conveyed by it — that Phoebe 
 was in no mood for adventurous action of any kind ; 
 that she would never think of going to the workshop 
 that night, however strong her tendency might be to 
 go thither under ordinary temptation or fear. But 
 cunning people get so charmed by their own little 
 bits of ingenuity that they cannot readily resign 
 themselves to the belief that their plans are unneces- 
 sary or mischievous. So was it with Susanna to- 
 night. She had persuaded herself Phcebe would 
 want to go to the workshop ; and everything that 
 Phoebe did which seemed to take her from the work- 
 shop appeared only to Susanna proof of the artful-
 
 THE FUTURE LADY OF BRANHAPE. 339 
 
 ness that was thought necessary to cover the 
 intended visit. She was wrong in theory, but 
 happened to prove wonderfully right, for once, in 
 practice. 
 
 Although two or three hours passed hy before 
 anything happened of importance, Susanna was kept 
 wakeful and watchful by the frequent sounds she 
 heard coming from Phoebe's bedroom. She could 
 not at all make them out. At times she thought 
 she heard moaning, then a cry, then she was sure 
 she heard Stephen and Phoebe engaged in talk. All 
 this only confirmed the girl in her belief that some- 
 thing was going on which it behoved her to watch. 
 She began to fancy that Stephen, innocent as he 
 looked and talked, might perhaps know all that she 
 supposed Phoebe to know ; and that they were now 
 discussing what had happened at the Hall, which 
 must certainly have been about Guy. Then there 
 was a long pause ; and, just when Susanna began to 
 find her eyelids drooping, and her hope die out, she 
 was roused into sudden activity by the sound of a 
 stealthy step on the stairs, going down. In an 
 
 instant Susanna crept from the bed, j)ut on her 
 
 z2
 
 340 GUY WATERMAN. 
 
 slippers and her cloak, and went to the door to 
 listen. Phoebe had already got to the front door, 
 and was undoing the fastenings. Susanna stole 
 down after her, and tried to prevent a particular 
 and much-dreaded stair from creaking, but her 
 blood ran cold as she heard the usual betraying 
 noise. It was curious that Phoebe had passed the 
 same stair in perfect silence. Susanna listened with 
 all her soul to make sure whether or no she had 
 been heard, but the process of drawing back the 
 bolt of the door, and of unlocking it went on, so 
 Susanna slid down into the darkness at the bottom 
 and waited, holding her very breath, till she felt 
 suffocated lest her neighbour in the darkness might 
 hear her. 
 
 Phoebe got the door open at last, and Susanna 
 could not but wonder at the noiselessness with which 
 the whole had becni done. Now a new fright seized 
 her. When the door was opened there would be 
 some light — not much, perhaps, for it was not yet 
 dawn, but possibly sufficient to enable Phcebe to see 
 Susanna where she lay crouched in tlie corner. But 
 she was afraid of making matters worse by endea-
 
 THE FUTURE LADY OF BRANHAPE. 341 
 
 vouring to move to get behind some screen, so 
 remained where she was. 
 
 Phcebe did not look back, but passed out with 
 a strangely abstract and mysterious manner that 
 Susanna noticed and was puzzled by. 
 
 As soon as the latter thought Phoebe had got far 
 enough in advance she ventured to the door and 
 crossed the threshold ; when, to her horror, she met 
 Phoebe's shadowy form returning straight to the door- 
 way. She gave herself up for lost. Retreat or 
 advance was alike useless. She could only falter- 
 ingly ask herself what Phoebe would do to her. 
 
 But, wonderful to say, Phoebe took no notice, 
 did not even seem to see her, and she moved 
 on past Susanna (who shrank from her as from a 
 ghost) and drew the door to, which she seemed to 
 remember she had left unclosed. She then, with 
 that same heavy sigh that Susanna had heard so 
 often during the night, passed on through the gloom 
 towards the workshop. 
 
 Young as she was and inexperienced in life and 
 its phenomena, Susanna knew now that Phoebe must 
 be sleep-walking; and though the girl felt her flesh
 
 342 GUY WATERMAN. 
 
 creep and her soul quake with supernatural fear, 
 yet she also felt herself drawn on as by a kind of 
 irresistible fascination to watch Phoebe's proceedings, 
 not so much for the reason that had all along 
 moved her as because of the strange, unearthly 
 influence that seemed to have taken possession of 
 her whole being. 
 
 When Phoebe reached the shed she stopped for a 
 moment as if listening intently ; and then, as if 
 feehng unsatisfied, drew a little aside and bent low 
 to the ground, just as she had once done in the 
 workshop when first she concealed the packet there. 
 
 Satisfied at last, she went in, and now Susanna's 
 long-cherished desire to be admitted to the secret 
 of the workshop was gratified; in part, at least. 
 She saw Phoebe move that ponderous bench bit by 
 bit, going alternately from end to end : she saw her 
 mount it when she had got it nearer to the wall ; 
 she saw her force out with a tool one of the bricks, 
 and then she saw brought forth the packet — the 
 packet that, as Susanna rightly thought, explained 
 Guy's true birth. 
 
 Phoebe reclosed the aperture when she had ab-
 
 THE FUTURE LADY OF BRANHAPE. 343 
 
 stracted tlie package, and she did this with so much 
 precision that Susanna felt she should have some 
 difficulty to distinguish the spot in the day- 
 light. The bench was also restored to its place. 
 While Phoebe did all this she preserved the same 
 mysterious and almost appalling air of quietude, 
 broken, however, occasionally by the old low, deep, 
 and pathetic sigh, that seemed to speak of a break- 
 ing heart. 
 
 Susanna waited but for one thin" more — that 
 
 o 
 
 was, to see Phoebe put the package into her bosom ; 
 and then she hurried back to the house as fast 
 as her trembling limbs would carry her, certain 
 beyond all question that her mother had been right; 
 and that she, Susanna, now knew enough to enable 
 her in all probability to become mistress of the 
 rest. But she was also conscious of a new danGfer — 
 namely, that Phoebe, whose wanderings of mind, it 
 was impossible to guess at, might come to Susanna's 
 room before she could get back to it, if she allowed 
 her to be the first to leave the workshop. 
 
 She had scarcely rccrossed the threshold, got in- 
 side, and closed the door, before she heard Phoebe's
 
 344 GUY WATERMAN. 
 
 hand on the latch. Again she flew up the stairs, 
 fearing for a moment she was pursued, but stopped 
 panting to listen as she got to her own room. 
 Phoebe was refastening the door ; and, having satis- 
 fied herself on that point, seemed to pause for an 
 instant or two (no doubt while she took off her 
 slippers and put them on the tireless fender to dry), 
 and then she came up the stairs, and went into her 
 own bedroom, to Susanna's great relief, who now 
 herself got into bed ; and, after a few minutes of 
 wonder, and ejaculation, and triumph, and sup- 
 pressed terror, fell asleep ; and so was not aware 
 of Phoebe^s second visit to the workshop after she 
 had waked from her dreamy and eventful midnight 
 wanderings. 
 
 It will be understood now why it was that Su- 
 sanna, notwithstanding her share in the doings of 
 the night, was able to appear so naturally surprised 
 when rudely awakened by Phoebe and challenged 
 to give up what she had taken away. Susanna teas 
 as surprised as she seemed to be at such a charge. 
 She had taken nothing, and w^as astounded that 
 Mrs. Waterman should fancy she could have touched
 
 THE FUTURE LADY OP BRANHAPE. 345 
 
 the packet, if it was that she referred to. And, 
 although for a moment the thought crossed her that 
 Phoebe had somehow or other been conscious of her 
 presence and oversight, she soon convinced herself 
 that she was mistaken ; and so, altogether, she was 
 able to keep up that air of innocent astonishment 
 which had gone far to convince Phoebe. 
 
 But when Phoebe, baffled in her purpose and 
 hesitating as to Susanna's conduct, went away, Su- 
 sanna got out of bed, full of wonder as to what had 
 become of the package, and, on the whole, again 
 inclined to think that Phoebe was playing a part ; 
 that she did know or guess that Susanna had 
 watched her ; and that all her subsequent proceed- 
 ings had been suggested by the desire to get the 
 package away from the workshop, and make Susanna 
 believe it was lost in the strange adventures of the 
 night. The latter, therefore, was more anxious than 
 ever to watch Phoebe's movements at so critical a 
 time, when the packet was evidently about to bo 
 consigned to a new place of concealment, more 
 diflBcult, perhaps, for the secret-hunter to dis- 
 cover. And thus it was that at the very moment
 
 346 GUY WATERMAN. 
 
 before Phoebe returned to her room and found in 
 her trunk what she had mislaid so strangely, Su- 
 sanna had been also there, notwithstanding Stephen 
 was in bed ; but of course she could see nothing of 
 any consequence, and had to retreat hurriedly to 
 evade the wakeful Phoebe. 
 
 Two very curious results followed from all this 
 plotting and counter-plotting between them. Phoebe 
 was utterly deceived as to the state of Susanna's 
 knowledge, and yet she had left the packet in the 
 very safest possible place, in restoring it to the 
 workshop ; for Susanna believed that wherever else 
 it might be, in the workshop it certainly was not. 
 Had she not herself seen it taken away ? And did 
 she not perceive, by Phoebe's manner at breakfast, 
 that it was quite certain that if she had ever mislaid 
 the packet at all, which Susanna doubted, she had 
 soon found it again and hidden it in the new place ; 
 for how else could she have become so suddenly 
 listless as to action? 
 
 ' No, no,' thought Susanna. ' She has done what 
 she wanted to do — got it into a new hiding-place ; 
 and she thinks that if I knew anything at all about 
 
 /
 
 THE FUTURE LADY OF BRANHAPE. 347 
 
 her proceedings to-night, she has baffled me by pre- 
 tending it is lost.' 
 
 No wonder that Susanna began to weary of so 
 much difficult cogitation. It made her fear that 
 she would not be able to cope with Phoebe in such 
 things. Then, again, she had a strong belief that 
 she should never be able to hunt for the packet in 
 safety in Phoebe's own bedchamber. All this 
 puzzled her. Her thoughts began to revert to her 
 mother. What would she have done or recom- 
 mended? Why, she would probably have entirely 
 changed her policy. 
 
 * What do I want to know more than I do know?' 
 said Susanna to herself. ' My mother told me the 
 story, and to-night Mrs. Waterman has given me 
 the proof that it is true. Guy, then, is a gentleman 
 born, and heir to the squire. But why did Mrs. 
 W^aterman deceive everybody so, I wonder ? ' 
 
 Susanna could not answer this question. She 
 could not even frame to herself a probable theory. 
 She only saw that the fact was so. She only wanted 
 to know how she herself might profit by it. 
 
 * Yes,' said she to herself, after a long fit of
 
 348 GUY WATEEMAN. 
 
 Study, ' I know now what my mother would do. 
 She would stick to Mrs. Waterman so closely, 
 make her believe she loved her so very much, was 
 such a very good and kind friend of hers, that she'd 
 be sure at last to worm the truth out of her without 
 seeming to want it, and so get to know all about 
 everything Yes, that's what she'd do. Well, can't 
 I do it ? Besides, if I don't do it this way, what 
 good'll be all my cleverness? If I don't win Guy 
 it's no use helping him to win back his property. 
 And if I don't please Mrs. Waterman she'll turn 
 Guy against me. I think she's doing it now. 
 Envious, spiteful creature I She wants him to love 
 nobody but herself. Oh, but I'll see ! I'll make 
 him like me. Can't I ? Let me look at myself in 
 the glass once more and see if I can't.' 
 
 Susanna went to her glass, sat down before it, 
 tossed back her long fair hair with a playful, 
 coquettish gesture, and laughed as she met her own 
 reflection. 
 
 * I wonder if I shall get still more beautiful as I 
 grow older. How I wish I wasn't so old. I'm 
 almost thirteen, and he's only nine. People will set
 
 THE FUTURE LADY OF BRANHAPE. 349 
 
 liim against me that way. But they shan't. Oh, I 
 know ! ' Again she laughed at her image in the 
 glass, which seemed to grow more radiant and 
 lovely as it grew more full of good-humour. 
 
 ' But he's an odd boy to deal with. I can't alto- 
 gether make him out. He's so rude and short. 
 And then he seems to see so much that you didn't 
 expect. If I do make him care about me he'll 
 watch me pretty close. But I don't care I I know 
 what I know ! ' 
 
 For the third time the hopeful, and to some 
 extent already triumphant Susanna laughingly 
 sought her face in the glass, holding her head a 
 little first to one side, then to the other, while she 
 held her ringlets so as to envelope and give her 
 features their most fascinating effect. 
 
 * Oh, I am very beautiful ! and I mean to get 
 more beautiful still. I must mind my temper. 1 
 believe it's true that people do get old-looking and 
 ugly if they give way to their tempers. So I won't. 
 And I mean to get hold of Master Guy. Won't it 
 be nice to see him at my feet askini^ me to be his 
 wife, and me blushing and refusing him, but so
 
 350 GUY WATERMAN. 
 
 gently that he'll be sure to ask me again ; and then 
 again I'll refuse with a still deeper blush (somehow 
 I can blush when I like if I'm at all excited), but 
 then I'll look at him despairingly ; and he'll entreat 
 me so frantically, and then I shall at the very last 
 give way all at once, and drop on his neck, and tell 
 him I can't tell him how much I love him ; and 
 then I shall cry a good long while, and then, when 
 it's all over, I shall be the lady of Branhape. 
 
 * Yes, and I will be a lady ! I'll show them I 
 can spend money as well as a nobleman's daughter ; 
 and I'll show them I can order my servants about 
 and not be a bit afraid of them, however big-looking 
 and consequential they are in their grand liveries, 
 and with their big calves. Only let me see one of 
 them but looking as if he was thinking — Oh, she's 
 only Susan Beck's daughter ! 
 
 'Well, I'm happy to-day! I've done a good 
 day's work ; so why shouldn't I be ? But now I 
 must stop. I must be solemn, staid, and respectable. 
 Yes, and I'll go to church regularly. And I'll try 
 to please the people that are always talking bad 
 about me. And I'll never let anyone see a bit of
 
 THE FUTUEE LADY OF BKANHAPE. 351 
 
 temper any more. No, no ; I mean to be the lady 
 of Branbape — and that's the way. 
 
 * There, now you know ! I tell you so ! ' and 
 Susanna shook her head with all its waving ringlets 
 at the face in the glass, which replied to her in the 
 same mode. ' But mind, it's a secret between us 
 two. Mind you deny it, as I shall, in every possible 
 way, if ever I'm obliged to speak before tl.ie right 
 time. Oh, yes ; I shall never win either Guy or 
 Mrs. Waterman if I don't begin by appearing to 
 forget all about myself. That used to be my fault. 
 My clever mother told me so. But I'll be on my 
 guard now. Oh yes, I see it all now. By the time 
 he is seventeen, or, say eighteen, he shall be my 
 husband ; and then, a little while after, some acci- 
 dent must bring out the truth that we are the lord 
 and lady of Branbape ; and I must be wonderfully 
 surprised ; and then he will introduce me to all his 
 kindred. Oh yes; I see them all waiting in the 
 grand saloon ; and Squire Guy — my own handsome 
 and rich Squire Guy — will lead me up to them, 
 walking very slowly and statclily ; and when I get 
 to a certain distance I shall bend a little, proudly.
 
 352 GUY WATERMAN. 
 
 yet condescendingly — ^just like this.' And, suiting 
 the action to the word, Susanna began practising 
 before the glass her curtsy to the future guests of 
 Branbape. 
 
 END OF VOL. I. 
 
 LONDON: PKINTED IJV W. CLOWES AND SONS, STAMFORD STBKET, 
 AND CHARING CROSS.